


we'll go down in history

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (meaning: first time for everything), Alternate Universe - College/University, Everyone is Queer, F/M, First Time, M/M, Trans Character, we're all sinners it's cool
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU. Revolutionary.</p><p>(Or: Alexander Hamilton is a first-generation college student with something to prove, his roommate is almost intimidatingly cool, and he keeps running into arrogant, smooth-talking Aaron Burr. Also, Alexander is maybe kind of really falling for one of his best friends. Rap battles, all-nighters, and other escapades ensue.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empire State of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> if there's any dubious content, i'll put warnings in the chapter notes. i hope that folks are digging this idea, the characterization, etc.!
> 
> comments/criticism/suggestions are very much appreciated
> 
> rock on y'all

**ONE**

**King's College**

* * *

It's the columns that Alexander recognizes first—white, Grecian. They front the administrative building; he knows this from pamphlets and application folders and the fliers that the school has been sending him in the mail for the past twelve months. A year of obsession and application essays finished at three a.m. and scrutinizing every photograph on the "Student Life" page on the King's College website, and he's finally— _finally_ —here. 

The satisfaction that Alexander feels is almost perverse. 

"Hey, dude, look out!" 

Alexander barely registers the shout before a white plastic disc zips past him, barely clipping his forehead. He yelps, almost drops his duffel bag. A few boys wearing basketball shorts and muscle shirts wave apologetically, shouting  _sorry, bro_ across the lawn. Alexander lifts his right hand, waves back. Between the barely-controlled chaos of freshman move-in day and upperclassmen returning to campus, almost getting clocked by a frisbee isn't so bad. He inhales deeply, straightens his shoulders, and hurries in the direction of those blessedly familiar columns. _  
_

The Campus Living office is a grim, florescent-lit space in the basement. A harried work-study student gives Alexander a manilla envelope with his housing assignment and room key inside, and then, as a seeming afterthought, a campus map. Alexander studies the map as he walks to his dorm—orienting himself as to where the library and dining hall are, the academic side of campus versus the dormitories and apartments. His building is brick, three stories tall, ivy tangling on the edifice. 

 _Shit_. Alexander's chest wells with something wonderful that feels akin to pride. The halls are crowded with students moving in, lugging suitcases and cardboard boxes up and down the stairs while their parents help or hinder, respectively. He hurries to the second floor—room 76. The door has been propped open by a cardboard box, and someone's bumping loud 90s hip-hop inside.

 _Biggie_. Alexander exhales audibly—okay, at least they dig the same music. He steps through the doorway.

"Hey."

A tall black kid with short hair is taping a poster up on the wall above his bed. When Alexander enters he turns around, mouths  _hey_ in return, and lunges to turn the music down.

"Hey, man." He extends a hand. Alexander shakes. His roommate's palm is warm and dry. "I'm Herc Mulligan. Everyone calls me Mulligan."

"Herc? Is that...?"

"Short for something? Yeah, Hercules. But only my mom calls me that, and only when she's  _pissed_." Mulligan smiles a warm, broad smile; Alexander feels instantly at ease. "Your parents here?"

"Um." Alexander turns away under the pretense of throwing his stuff on his bed. He scopes out his side of the room quickly—twin-size bed, bare mattress, a chest of drawers and a barren desk. "No, they're not." 

There's a moment of stiff silence. Then Mulligan says,

"Well, hey, man—if there's anything you need, my parents are both here. We have a car, too, might go to Walmart later because I'm a fuckin' idiot and didn't pack soap or razors."

Warm relief floods Alexander's entire being and he's laughing, saying that yeah, sure, he's down to go to Walmart. He unpacks quickly, suddenly very aware that his belongings are scant—his jeans and sweatshirts barely fill two of the three dresser drawers, and his backpack is almost entirely full of secondhand books and school supplies. Alexander doesn't have any posters or speakers or flags or anything to put up on his side of the wall; nothing to make the room feel more like home. 

Still, as he spreads his flannel sheets across the bed, Alexander thinks that this might be the closest to  _home_ he's ever gotten.

* * *

 

Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan take Herc and Alexander to Walmart, where Alexander spends ten dollars buying posters (Biggie mugging for the camera in black-and-white, a map of the United States, and the Puerto Rican flag because, hey, gotta rep), and then to Olive Garden. Alexander thinks that unlimited breadsticks are a literal godsend.

The Mulligans (senior, not Hercules) talk about their own college days (Howard University in the 1980s) and impart advice upon both boys. Hercules acts like he's embarrassed, but when they climb out of the Mulligans minivan in front of the dorm he gets a little chocked up. Alexander heads inside, so that he's not intruding on the family goodbye. Then he feels like shit, because he doesn't have parents to hug him goodbye and given him advice about parties and girls. 

Or boys.

Or whatever.

He's taping up posters when Mulligan returns, and together they straighten the room out and then look around, satisfied. Alexander feels that weird rush of pride again. He doesn't bother to tamp it down.

* * *

 

Orientation is hellish.

The freshmen class suffers through a lengthy keynote from President Madison, who talks for longer than Alexander previously thought possible, and then they're all assigned groups to meet with and there's a lot of awful forced interactions. Alexander's awkwardness is suddenly ramped up, and he stumbles over his own name (his  _own name_ ) while introducing himself to thirty of his peers, and he and Mulligan are separated. 

There's a break between activities, and other students hang out and text or talk to their newfound friends; Alexander tries to strike up a conversation with one of the student orientation leaders.

"What's your major?" he asks. She's chipping at her nail polish.

"Sociology. You have any idea what you're gonna study? Not that you should, you're just—"

"Political Science, hopefully double majoring in English or History, depending on which I think is more useful—but I want to do a pre-law track and go into politics, so we'll see how that all works out. It's like, a lot of people say that English is a major that's relatively compatible with almost everything, since there's such an emphasis on—"

"Yeah, you should talk to Aaron Burr." The girl flicks her thumbnail across loose polish. "He's a sophomore, too, we had PolySci 100 together last year. I think he's doing..." she kind of waves her right hand. "The same thing you're talking about."

Alexander wants to ask more, press her for details, but someone is announcing another speech and everyone's standing up and stretching and complaining casually, so for forty-five minutes Alexander pays only half-attention and fixes the rest on mulling over the name: _Aaron Burr_. 

* * *

 

After orientation, Alexander circumnavigates the entire campus. He likes walking, likes that he can walk for hours, for miles, and think the entire time—just let his thoughts pull him down in a fast, delicious current. He doesn't have to feel awkward or out of place or like he doesn't belong here or like he's just the exact  _wrong thing_. 

When he gets back to the room, Mulligan is playing loud music; Alexander hears it through the door and hesitates before opening it. The smell of pot assaults his nose right away. Two unfamiliar boys are sitting on the floor; Mulligan is cross-legged on his bed. They're passing a piece back and forth. 

"Um." Alexander hurriedly closes the door. "Hey."

There's a chorus of  _hey_ s and  _what's up_ s.

"This is John and Lafayette," Mulligan says, gesturing. The boys smile, tilt their chins in Alexander's direction.

"John Laurens," the first kid says. He has an easygoing smile, freckled face, curly dark hair barely-tamed into a ponytail. "What's good, man?"

"Hey, hey." Alexander offers a fist-bump. "Alexander."

"Lafayette." The second boy doesn't give a first name (is Lafayette a surname? Alexander isn't sure). He has a pretty impressive 'fro and a lilting accent—French, Alexander thinks, and Lafayette must read it in his face, because he says, "Yeah, international student. And, yeah,  _mon ami_ , there are black people in France."

"Oh! That's not—I wasn't—" Alexander stumbles before Lafayette laughs and pulls him down to the floor, pressing the piece into Alexander's hand.

"A joke,  _ami_ , relax. You smoke?"

"Uh, yeah." Alexander forces a laugh. "Like, yeah." And, okay, he's inwardly panicking a little because all the times he's smoked before (meaning: two times, neither of which got him even  _remotely_ high), it was joints at a party and seemed really easy and now he feels like everyone's watching him and he's not even sure how to use a piece and how do you even, like, light it? Just inhale? 

So he does. Nothing happens.

"Bro," Mulligan says quietly. "You need to light it."

Alexander's face is literally burning. He forces another laugh. "Oh, I thought—it was already lit, um." And, great, now everyone's going to know that he's some weed poser who isn't even  _cool_ , and he'll never make friends, and everyone will think that he's just a loser kid from asscrack nowhere, a first-gen freak who doesn't smoke or have friends, or—

John Laurens gives him a lighter and maybe the brightest smile Alexander has seen all day, and everything is alright again. 

* * *

 

For the third time, Alexander doesn't get high

At all.

* * *

 

Classes begin the next morning. Alexander is up at seven o'clock sharp, splashing his face with frigid tapwater before shaving and getting dressed. He's already jittery with nerves. 

His first class is Political Science 100, and Alexander is anxious because his professor is also his advisor, and an automated email last night informed him that advisor-advisee meetings begin this week. 

Mulligan, wise enough to shy away from eight a.m. classes, is still asleep when Alexander leaves. He half-jogs to the academic side of campus, pausing only as he passes the administrative building; it's a beautiful morning, cleanly cool, and grayish light slants across the impressive façade. The lawn is smooth and wet with condensation. 

Some nagging part of Alexander, a voice in his head that won't  _shut up_ , reminds him that by all odds he shouldn't be here. That King's College was not built for people like him. That those columns were meant to keep people like  _him_ out. Maybe it's just the perspective, but suddenly the edifice looks a lot more like prison bars.

Alexander jogs the rest of the way to class, not looking back.

* * *

 

 It is the first time that Alexander has ever been inside a lecture hall. The space is smaller than he thought it would be, less like a stadium and more like his high school's dinky auditorium. A few students are sitting in the very back or the middle, drinking coffee or texting or sleeping. Alexander strides past them, ignoring tired, calculating glances from his classmates. He sits in the front row, takes out his spiral-bound notebook and writes the date and  _Political Science 100_ across the top of the page. 

Then he waits.

And waits.

Ten minutes crawl past before the rest of the class files in, followed by a commotion as people find seats and strike up conversation with their neighbors. Only a few other people sit in the front row—three boys in polo shirts and two preppy-looking girls who give Alexander sideways glances and then ignore him.

For the first time, Alexander wonders, passingly, if he shouldn't have worn nicer clothes—something more put-together than jeans and an old hoodie. Does he look, like, frumpy? Like he doesn't care? Like he'd rather be in bed than in an eight o'clock lecture—because that's  _not_ the case, he tells himself; there's nowhere else he would want to be, nowhere in the world, than King's College, than this lecture hall at eight o'clock on a Monday morning—

"This seat taken?" A girl's voice smoothly interrupts Alexander's running monologue. Without waiting for a response, she slides into the seat next to him, starts pulling notebooks out of her bookbag. 

She's strikingly pretty and her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to cut a man. Alexander swallows, shifts in his seat. 

"I think it's interesting to see who thought that they could handle this class at eight a.m.," she says, almost conversationally. There's the hint of something hard beneath the surface, something in the way she says  _this class_ , like she knows something that Alexander does not.

"Guess we'll see how many people show up tomorrow," he returns, mostly because he's not sure what else to say and something in this girl's sharp prettiness is unnerving and attractive. He's about to say more, but the door opens again and the class falls silent as two men enter, one holding a briefcase and the second a backpack.

"My name is Professor Washington." He turns, writes the name in looping chalk letters across the green board. "And this is Political Science 100. If this isn't the class you're here for, I suggest that you leave now."

It's obviously meant to be a joke. Nobody laughs.

"Given the earliness of this section, it's unsurprising that there are only about fifty of you." Washington consults a sheet of paper. "That's about fifty less than most sections. It'll work out in your favor, as a smaller class means more targeted, intimate discussion. More time with each other, less time going over foundational groundwork."

Alexander's chest is thrumming with energy; yes, this is where he's meant to be. Washington is sliding sheafs of paper from his briefcase, still talking. His voice is steady and methodical, but not monotonous. Alexander thinks that he might be in platonic love.

"In addition to our Monday-Wednesday-Friday lectures, there will be a weekly discussion group on Friday afternoons. This is not optional, and skipping discussion is  _not_ ," he pauses here, glancing swiftly around the room as if to discern who might ditch, "recommended. Discussion will be led by your T.A., Aaron Burr."

The backpack-carrying boy (man? He looks barely older than Alexander) looks up and gives the class a perfunctory nod. He's lanky, handsome, hair buzzed close to his head. It's his bearing that Alexander notices; he exudes confidence. 

 _So that's Aaron Burr_ , Alexander thinks as Washington launches into their first lecture of the year. This is already his favorite class.

* * *

 

The introductory lecture is an overview of the American political system, mostly basics that Alexander has been familiar with for years. Other students are taking notes, hurriedly transcribing as Washington speaks. Alexander's hand is still and unmoving on his paper. So, he notices, is the girl's next to him. 

"Let's talk about power," Washington says, and writes that on the chalkboard:  _POWER_. All caps. "More specifically, should power be in the hands of the people, or the government?"

 Alexander's hand shoots up before the word  _government_ has left Washington's mouth. The professor pauses for a moment, as if in consideration.

"Why can't it be both?"

Something that might be a smile flickers behind Washington's eyes. "Alright," he says evenly. "Both. Now—"

"A strong central government affords power to the people, but it also allows that government to maintain control—you can't expect the people to have complete control and actually be  _effective_. It's not realistic—ideal, maybe, given this nation's democratic inclinations. But—come on—we all know that theory and practice end up radically different. Look at Marxism—great on paper, pretty harsh in reality. A strong federal government allows for the checks and balances necessary to—"

"Checks and balances," Washington breaks in smoothly, gesturing with the chalk. "Perfect." Then, turning back to scrawl on the chalkboard, "Thank you...?"

He's waiting for a name.

"Alexander Hamilton," Alexander says, too loudly. His cheeks are warm, and he can feel the rest of the class staring at him. "My name is Alexander Hamilton."

 _There are a million things I haven't done_. The thought is heavy on his tongue.  _This is just the beginning_.

 "Alexander mentioned a system of checks and balances. If any of you took eighth grade U.S. History, you should be well-versed with this system." Another joke. Again, nobody laughs, but Alexander sees Aaron Burr smile very lightly. "Can anyone elaborate on the governmental system of checks and balances?"

Alexander's hand shoots into the air again, so quickly that the muscles in his right shoulder twinge. Washington nods in his direction.

"The—" Alexander starts, but is cut off by a higher voice.

"The system of checks and balances, as defined by the U.S. government, exists to prevent one branch from becoming too powerful." The girl beside Alexander leans forward. Her dark, curly hair smells like shampoo—clean and flowery. "Every branch is restricted in two ways—the Executive branch can veto laws, for example, but Congress can override that veto with a vote of two-thirds in both houses." 

She talks quickly, evenly, doesn't stumble over words or sound doubtful. Or pause. Washington is writing on the board again. Something jumps in Alexander's chest.

"This is why a strong central government is so ideal," he says, without raising his hand. He realizes that he's leaning forward, forearms slung over the square pull-down desk. "The checks and balances system forces the government to maintain control while relinquishing control to other branches—that way, power is retained by all three branches, but it's also logical and ordered. Checks and balances eliminate the possibility of a singular branch becoming too powerful." Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander sees the girl next to him nod. He presses on, fueled by approval, by whatever strange camaraderie is built between the walls of lecture halls (this is what he assumes college is _supposed_ to be like). "We can't possibly expect the people to self-govern because  _the people_ are mostly uneducated and totally ignorant of the way that government is  _supposed to work_ —"

Aaron Burr looks down, shaking his head. Professor Washington turns away from the chalkboard, obviously about to interrupt. Alexander's cheeks are hot and his mouth dry. He keeps talking; it's all he knows how to do in this singular, electric moment.

"So unless we reform our educational system, support adult education and make extraordinary changes to our K-12 and higher education system, we can't expect people who don't understand the government to run a country. It's totally unrealistic. It's totally detrimental. Without nationwide changes to our country's very infrastructure, a strong federal government is  _necessary_ to maintain stability—it's crucial." 

Then he sits back, a little breathless. The rest of the class is silent. Alexander hears the clock ticking on the wall five feet above Washington's head; the twitching of the second hand resonates in his jumpy pulse. 

"Well," Washington says. "That was a good introduction to the checks and balances system, which we will be discussing in much more depth this semester."

He doesn't look at Alexander again. Aaron Burr, on the other hand, is staring unabashedly. Maybe it's just paranoia, but Alexander thinks that he sees something of a smile on Burr's face—sarcastic, or approving? The back of his neck is hot with sweat. He isn't sure what to feel—shame, embarrassment? Pride? 

The clock reads eight fifteen. Class isn't even halfway over.

* * *

 

As soon as Washington dismisses the lecture, Aaron Burr slides his notebook and class roster into his backpack and heads for the doorway. Alexander hurriedly gathers his own notebook and shoves his pencil sideways through the rubber band of his ponytail, then all but bolts in Burr's direction.

Burr is walking quickly, straight-backed, chin held high. Alexander has to jog a little to keep up.

"Excuse me," he says, shouldering past a throng of students. "Are you Aaron Burr?"

"Depends on who's asking." 

"Oh." Alexander isn't sure if this is a joke. "Well, sure. I'm Alexander Hamilton, I'm—"

"I know," Burr says, not looking in Alexander's direction. "You mentioned."

"I've been looking for you," Alexander says, maybe a little too loudly. Burr arches one eyebrow. 

"You're making me nervous." Nothing in his tone even remotely betrays nervousness. His teeth, Alexander thinks, are strikingly white. 

"I heard that you're a sophomore—it's unusual for a second-year student to be a T.A., isn't it? And you're double-majoring, right?"

If Burr is unnerved by the fact that a total stranger is so well-acquainted with his academic prowess, he doesn't show it. He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. 

"How do you do it?" They leave the humanities building; the morning sunlight is clean and harsh in a cerulean sky. Alexander squints. "It's—I mean, how do you do so much?"

Burr draws to a sudden halt on the grassy commons. "If you really want to know, it was my parents. My mother was a genius and I respected my father more than anything. The least that I can do is further the," he pauses for a half-second. "Burr legacy."

Something hot and excited jumps in Alexander's chest, his throat.

"You're an orphan!" A few passerby turn, shoot them swift glances before continuing. "Shit, I'm an orphan, too—god, I wish we had a better way of proving ourselves!" Alexander lowers his voice. "A revolution, something to actually  _fight for_ , a real cause—a way or proving that we're actually worth it, you know? That we're worth more than any of them bargained for?"

At  _them_ , he gestures towards the administrative buildings. Burr glances away.

"Can I offer you some free advice, Mister Hamilton?"

Alexander nods, holding his notebook so tightly that the metal spiral digs into the skin of his palm. 

"Talk less. Smile more. Keep your head down, and you'll get along at King's College just fine." Burr's voice is smooth and calculating. He gives Alexander a swift smile. The expression isn't particularly friendly.

"I..." Alexander swallows. "This is. My chance, you feel me?"

"Alexander," Burr says, and his voice is taut with exasperation. "I don't mean offense here, but you're a freshman. Ranting about checks and balances on your first day of class isn't exactly what the Poli Sci department is looking for."

"I made good points!" Alexander protests. Burr licks his lips. 

"You mentioned Marxism. And educational reform. It's kind of—elementary." 

"You—" Alexander begins, cheeks heating with what he can only categorize as shame; he's about to launch into a tirade, but someone shouts his name. Mulligan, John Laurens, and Lafayette are striding towards them. They're all waving. Aaron Burr, obviously sensing the opportunity to escape Alexander's verbal onslaught, turns and hurries away without another word. Alexander watches him, watches the quick, measured strides. 

 _Whatever_ , he thinks.  _Doesn't matter anyways_.

But as Mulligan and Laurens and Lafayette slap him on the back and hustle him in the direction of the dining hall, Alexander thinks that it does matter, and that it matters a lot.

* * *

 

That evening, Alexander walks around the campus again, writing in his head. He's composing responses to Burr's seeming apathy, thinking of questions to ask. Mulligan is the room Skyping with his parents, and Alexander feels awkward hanging around in the background. So he walks. His mind keeps drifting back to what he knows about Aaron Burr: that, like Alexander, he's an orphan. That, like Alexander, he's got something to prove. That, like Alexander, he's hungry for something. Ambitious. 

He's deep in thought, so much so that at first he doesn't recognize the boy sitting on the library steps, reading.

"John Laurens." Alexander draws to a halt. "What's up?"

"It's just Laurens." He gives Alexander a toothy smile. "There are nine other Johns in the freshman class alone. Gotta maintain some level of individuality around here."

"Alright," Alexander laughs, sinks down to sit beside Laurens. "What're you reading?"

Laurens holds the cover up. 

"Douglass," Alexander says. "For a class?"

Laurens nods. "This history class that I'm taking—a 200 level about slave narratives. I tested out of all the 100 levels. APUSH, and all that shit. Anyways, some kid in class today, he raises his hand and goes  _I'm just glad that this is a part of our past, that it's over_." He lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, glances up at Alexander. 

Alexander's chest tightens a little. Probably from walking around campus so fast. He should work out more, build up stamina—

"Slavery isn't an issue of the past. It's not some shameful part of American history that's  _over_." Laurens closes the book and runs his fingertips over the portrait of Douglass on the cover. "For someone to say that in a sophomore-level history class on the first day? It's disappointing. It pisses me the fuck off. You feel?"

"Yeah, I feel." Alexander isn't looking at Frederick Douglass's face. He's noticing that Laurens has freckles all over, even down to the collar of his t-shirt, and that his eyes are greenish in the hazy evening light.

"But that guy has a whole semester to get schooled by our professor and half the class," Laurens continues brightly. "So. There's that." He pauses. "Where you from, anyways?"

Alexander swallows. "Around."

"Where's  _around_?" There's no malice in Laurens' voice, only something gentle and kind. He leans over and nudges Alexander. 

"Uh. Puerto Rico, kind of. It's..." this isn't something that he wants to get into right now. The moment is too good, the evening light too beautiful. Everything feels balanced. "Long story."

"My mom's Dominican," Laurens says, and they bump fists. A second of quiet triumph. Familiarity. "I feel you, man."

And, Alexander thinks, he probably really does. 

"Anyways," Laurens says. "Want to go meet Mulligan and Lafayette? We're gonna eat in," he glances at his phone. "Fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah." Alexander stands up and stretches. The muscles in his neck are stiff. Laurens does the same, t-shirt riding up at the hem. Alexander looks away, across the dusk-hazy campus. The evening air smells still smells like summertime. "Where're you from, anyways?"

"South Carolina," Laurens says, and launches into a monologue about growing up in the South, about dirt roads and drawls and slow rivers and city streets at night. When Alexander sings an off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline", Laurens socks him the arm lightly, and Alexander pushes back, and they jog across the lawn like that, roughhousing while lights flicker on around them in the growing darkness. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. How We Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, i'm really glad that people are digging this fic! a quick author's note:
> 
> i'm writing hamilton as a poor, first-gen student because a) historically he was a poor, first-generation college student (and american) and b) i'm also a poor, first-gen college student so this narrative is really #relatable. unlike a lot of our peers, we can't rely on family to teach us how to get through college and navigate the academic and social world (especially during freshman year). also, being a low-income college kid is fuckin' rough. i'm a sophomore now, and i still freak out when i see how much textbooks cost. anyways, shoutout to all my fellow first-gen kids. we're awesome and tough and we're gonna kick some academic ass.
> 
> ALSO chapter titles are hip-hop songs. dig it?

**TWO**

* * *

 

Wednesday dawns overcast and muggy. Alexander, jolted from sleep by vague and unsettling dreams at six-thirty, wakes up sweating and tangled in his sheets. The room is quiet and shadowy with gray light; Mulligan shifts in his sleep. Alexander stares at the ceiling for a long time, trying to recall his dream—someone's hands on his forehead, he thinks, and a voice, and someone singing. 

A truck's engine rattles past in the distance. Alexander scrubs his hands over his face and pushes back his sweat-damp sheets, then stands to strip down to his boxers. After Poli Sci and English 206, he has an advisory meeting with Washington; he might as well shower now and avoid making a gross, sweaty first impression. Or second impression, Alexander thinks, digging his towel out of the bottom of his closet. He silently vows to keep his mouth shut in class today—at least as much as he can manage to.

It's only in the shower, hot water dripping over his eyelids, that Alexander remembers that he'd dreamt about his mother.

* * *

 

His witty seatmate sits a few desks away in Poli Sci and keeps taking long swigs of coffee from a thermos. Alexander wonders if his monologue last class turned her off. He'd like to think that he doesn't care. He does.

Washington lectures for the entire hour, leaving no time for comments and pausing only to answer questions from the few students awake enough to ask. Alexander is conspicuously silent. Aaron Burr sits on the side of the room and writes on a legal pad; it seems to Alexander that he's taking notes not so much on the subject of Washington's lecture but his teaching methods. 

Burr lingers after class to talk to Washington; Alexander knows this because he takes his time packing up, watching the two of them stand by Washington's desk. The professor's arms are folded, and he keeps nodding in agreement. Burr is smiling that smooth, white smile and gesturing. As Alexander leaves the room, he hears Washington laugh loudly at something Burr says.

 _What a kiss-ass_. He rolls his eyes in Burr's direction, even though he knows that the older student can't see him. Regardless, the act of rebellion is satisfying.

English 206 is not so satisfying. The professor is monotonous and makes a sexist joke about Chaucer within the first half hour of class. Alexander zones out, ends up drawing weird geometric shapes all over his notes. As soon as the hour-and-a-half is up, he's on his feet and shoving notebooks into his backpack (reminder, Alexander thinks; he still hasn't bought any textbooks). Although even admitting so makes him feel kind of foolish, Alexander is nervous about his first advisory meeting—does Washington think him overeager, a loudmouth, embarrassing? 

Okay, maybe Alexander's a little paranoid about people he respects disliking him. Who isn't? It's not like he has a fervent, unrelenting need to prove himself...

Okay, maybe that's a lie. 

* * *

 

Regardless of any lingering fear of Washington's disapproval, ten o'clock in the morning sees Alexander sitting in a ladder-backed wooden chair in Washington's narrow, spartan office.

"So, Alexander." Washington taps a pen on his desktop. This close, he looks a lot less intimidating—there's something kind and sincere in his dark eyes. "What's your story?"

Alexander panics for a moment; he doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to drag the past out of the dark and show Washington all the sadness and pain and longing. 

He says, "uh". Washington smiles a  _go ahead_ kind of smile. Alexander swallows. 

"I'm from, uh, the Caribbean. Puerto Rico, so I'm not an international student. I want to study politics." And, okay, yeah, this is something that he can talk about with self-assurance. Alexander leans forward in the chair. "I've known what I wanted to do since I was fourteen. Where I come from, a lot of kids get mixed up with gangs and drugs and they don't see eighteen, let alone a college campus. It's easy to act cavalier about it, but it instilled a drive in me that I'll never give up on." 

Washington tilts his chin. "You're first-generation, Alexander."

"Yes," Alexander says, and he wonders if Washington can hear the faint tinge of shame in his voice. It's not something that he admits easily; the burden of being the first to go to college is, to most people, totally foreign. They don't understand the desperate need for success that's kept Alexander so motivated—the reason that he stayed up until four o'clock in the morning writing essays and applying for scholarships, writing paragraphs about disadvantage and triumph until he could barely see or think or  _feel_ straight. 

There are thing that he will never tell Washington. Alexander knows this right away.

"There's no shame in that," Washington says easily. "My father was the first in his family to go to college."

Alexander isn't sure what to say to that; eager to avoid the subject of fathers, he mentions his class schedule for the semester. When the conversation turns administrative, Alexander doesn't mind. He likes Washington—really likes him, he's fascinating and kind and Alexander wants to impress him—but there a kind of assurance in talking about what classes he's taking.

"Mostly 200-levels." Washington is looking at a printed copy of Alexander's schedule. "These are difficult classes, Alexander. Do you feel...?"

The word  _ready_ or maybe  _prepared_ is unspoken. Something fierce bites at Alexander. 

"Yes," he says, maybe a little too sharply. "I'm more than prepared. I took only Advanced Placement courses during my junior and senior year of high school, and I've had writing published in—" 

"Alright," Washington says. He nods, as if to himself. "Alright, son. I think you're well-prepared academically. My concern with first-generation students is always the workload."

"I can handle it," Alexander says quickly. He pushes his chin out and meets Washington's gaze. "The harder the work, the better."

* * *

 

By Friday afternoon, Alexander is  _exhausted_.

He stumbles back into the room after his Latin class (the language of government, so Alexander figures that he's got to learn it sooner or later) and collapses onto his hastily-made bed without bothering to undress or pull his shoes off.

"Dude," Mulligan pulls off his headphones. "You look like you just ran the New York City marathon."

Alexander lets out a kind of weird, high-pitched moan. "I haven't gotten more than five hours of sleep all week."

"Um, yeah." Mulligan gives him a  _well, duh_ kind of look. "You gotta wake up at, like, the asscrack of dawn every day. Didn't anyone tell you not to take eight a.m. classes?" _  
_

Something empty settles in Alexander's chest. "No," he mutters, staring at the ceiling.  _There was nobody to tell me_ , he thinks.  _Nobody I know went to college_.  _  
_

"Well, now you know." Mulligan winks, smiles, puts his headphones back on. Alexander lies on his bed for the next forty-five minutes, thinking about his next class—Poli Sci discussion, overseen by Aaron Burr—with a growing sense of nervousness and excitement. 

* * *

 

The Poli Sci discussion is held not in the regular lecture hall, but in another smaller classroom in the basement of the humanities building. Alexander gets lost finding it, and ends up slinking in five minutes late.

Aaron Burr is standing at the front of the classroom, holding a clipboard. When Alexander enters, Burr gives him a swift, cutting look.

"Unlike some other TA's, I won't tolerate lateness." The comment is very obviously directed at Alexander, who sinks into a seat in the middle of the room. His face warms with embarrassment and anger. Burr glances away, making a mark on his clipboard. He finishes calling roll and then leans against the desk at the front of the room, fixing the class with an appraising look.

"This discussion period," Burr says, "is intended to give you not only a better understanding of the material that you're learning in lecture but  _also_ to reinforce how well you're able to talk about that information with both your peers and myself."

Since it's the first discussion, Burr explains, they'll be talking about basic structures in U.S. government. A boy at the front of the room raises his hand and asks an inane question—the kind of question intended to impress the professor or, in this case, Burr—and while Burr answers and then starts a discussion with the rest of the class, Alexander sizes the TA up. 

There's something in Burr's bearing that had been immediately obvious to Alexander—a kind of self-confidence that's just shy of totally intimidating. Burr dresses well, is wearing corduroy pants and a polo shirt and a belt, nice shoes. Professional, clean-cut. He's handsome, too, looks like the upstanding kind of student whose photograph the college uses in promotional material. If Alexander didn't know any better, he would guess that Burr is a rich kid from a good family.

But he isn't. He's an orphan, like Alexander. He comes from...Alexander doesn't know, to be fair. Staring at Burr, he tries to reason that out—the fact that an orphan, a parentless kid from God-knows-where, has assimilated seemingly effortlessly to academia. It doesn't make sense to Alexander.

He's zoning out, barely hears his name being called until Burr says,

"Alexander Hamilton!"

Alexander starts violently. Everyone at the front of the room has turned to stare at him. Burr is giving him an expectant look, and Alexander realizes that he must have missed a question being directed at him.  _Fuck_. The back of his neck burns under his classmates' gaze. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Sure," Burr says smoothly. "The question that José asked of the class was: does absolute power corrupt absolutely?"

"Oh." Alexander nods. Then, before he can even finish a summation of his thoughts, he's opening his mouth. "Does absolute power corrupt absolutely? That's a question that's been asked since the Roman Empire was in it's heyday, since the Puritans left the Netherlands and since this nation was founded on the principle of  _freedom_." The words are electric on his tongue now. "What does absolute power mean for us, for America? The system of checks and balances prohibits any one branch of government from gaining too much political power—we know that, that's middle school history. But what about corruption? What about the tyrannical fantasy that Woodrow Wilson wanted, what about the politicians who would see us forget about the Constitution and build a totalitarian utopia. Since this nation's founding we have been  _fighting_ absolute power, but we see it every day—in corrupt politicians, in bribes and government officials being paid off, taking deals and cuts. How do we prevent that totalitarian utopia from becoming a reality? Ratification of the Constitution is what's granting state's rights, what's giving power to the people! Does absolute power corrupt absolutely? Yes. But only if we let it."

Silence.

Alexander is breathing hard. Burr pauses, nods. Someone mutters "well, shit" in the back of the classroom. Alexander knows that other students are staring at him, maybe wondering what the hell he's trying to prove, but he doesn't care. All that he's focused on is the slight, approving smile on Aaron Burr's face.

* * *

 

There's a party.

"You should come," Mulligan says, and when Alexander protests he practically forces him into clean jeans and a t-shirt. Everyone's gonna be there, Mulligan promises, although Alexander isn't sure who constitutes 'everyone', especially since he's made, like, two friends. But it's a Friday night and Alexander doesn't really want to spend hours alone in the room, so he puts on some cheap cologne and resolves to act like he's been to college parties before. Or parties at all.

They walk together to the edge of campus, and Lafayette texts Mulligan directions to a house. It's only a few blocks away, and while they walk Alexander eyes the neighborhood around campus—mostly brick walk-ups and brownstones, narrow and close together. They pass other students headed the same way, presumably going to the same party. Alexander feels weirdly nervous as he follows Mulligan up the concrete steps that front a nondescript brownstone. He can hear music thudding from inside, reverberating against the windows. As they approach the house, the door opens and a few girls leave. Mulligan and Alexander step inside.

It's chaos, wild with flashing lights and bass-heavy hip-hop and more people than Alexander can actually take in at once. There's a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed to the side to make space. Mulligan vanishes, leaving Alexander to stand awkwardly near the door and press himself up against the wall while people wind in and out of the doorway. 

Mulligan returns suddenly, shirt unbuttoned down to his collarbones, and presses a can of PBR into Alexander's hand. Then he's gone again, disappearing into the throngs of people on the dance floor. Alexander pulls the tab and drinks; he doesn't like beer, thinks it's bitter and frankly kind of gross, but he's more than willing to get a buzz going. The song changes, and more people go out to the dance floor. Alexander crosses the room, winding his way between unfamiliar people, and steps into the kitchen. Some boys are playing beer pong at the table. Alexander is wondering how drunk he'll have to be to actually socialize with people when he looks up and sees the girl from his Poli Sci class across the room. She's wearing a sleeveless shirt and short floral skirt and high heels. Their eyes meet; she tilts her chin up, weaves through the kitchen.

"Hey," she says. 

"Hey." Alexander says. His voice sounds weird and scratchy. 

She's holding a beer bottle, dragging one finger around the damp rim. 

"My name's Angelica Schuyler."

"Alexander Hamilton."  He holds his hand out; she shakes, palm hot to the touch. Angelica's hand lingers in his for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

She releases first, fingers going to her curly dark hair. "Where you from?"

Alexander looks away, a flicker of a glance, snapping the tab of his beer can. He's glad for something to do with his hands. "Unimportant." He pauses. "There're a million things I haven't done."

The comment immediately feels weird, too forward. Alexander expects Angelica to balk; instead, she smiles. They talk about Washington's class, about King's College. She's not a freshman, as Alexander had assumed—she's a junior, taking Poli Sci 100 to fulfill major requirements. 

"Honestly, I was afraid that everyone else in that class would be obnoxious freshmen trying to prove a point," she confides, leaning in close. "But you're sharp, Alexander. Witty. I like that."

Alexander watches her blink slowly, smile at him. He feels terse excitement build in his chest. Then Angelica turns and glances over her shoulder, and when she turns back something has shifted behind her eyes. Her fingers curl around Alexander's upper arm and she tugs him across the crowded kitchen, shouldering past two boys taking shots of Jacks. 

"Where are you taking me?" Alexander raises his voice over the throb of music. Angelica looks back over her shoulder, smiles again.

"I'm about to change your life."

"Then by all means," Alexander says, raising the PBR to his lips again and drinking deeply. The bitter taste floods his mouth. "Lead the way."

He half expects Angelica to drag him upstairs (that's what always happens in the movies, anyways), but she pulls up short in front of a girl standing next to a kitchen table cluttered with red Solo cups and empties. 

"Elizabeth Schuyler," Angelica says, leaning in close to Alexander to talk.

"Schuyler," he echoes. The name is solid and clear. American. 

"My sister," Angelica says. "She's a freshman, too."

"My name's Eliza." She doesn't shake Alexander's hand, but instead touches his arm lightly. She's smiling, a bright smile, her face framed by a curtain of straight dark hair. 

"Alexander Hamilton," Alexander says.

"I'll leave you to it," Angelica says, just loudly enough to make out over the music. She slips away, leaving Alexander and Eliza alone in the corner of the crowded kitchen. Alexander is about to say more, ask about Eliza's major or where she's from—something, anything—but someone jumps on him from behind so hard it almost hurts. A chorus of shouts—"ayyeee" and "my boy!" wash over Alexander and he turns to see Lafayette and Laurens. They slap each other's shoulders and bump fists, but by the time he turns back to Eliza she's gone. He sees her standing on the brownstone's back porch with her sister and a few other girls. Alexander waves before Lafayette seizes him by the arm and drags him back into the living room.

* * *

 

"Tell me, Alexander," Mulligan says. "How much have you  _actually_ drunk before?"

Alexander knows that this is a direct result of the Weed Incident, in which he had blatantly lied about having smoked out of a piece. 

"What? Plenty." Alexander rolls his eyes. Someone's shoved another beer into his hand. "Like, a lot." He thinks that this is his third can of PBR, or maybe his fourth. Laurens materializes from the kitchen with shot glasses full of dark amber liquid.

"You sure, bro?" Mulligan asks.

" _Please_ ," Alexander scoffs, and lifts the shot glass. "I know my limits, man."

* * *

 

"Okay," Alexander says. The words fall from his lips heavily. His tongue and head feel heavy and slow. "You know what I said earlier?"

"Which  _time_?" Laurens moans. They're leaning up against the staircase bannister, hard wood digging into Alexander's shoulder blades. 

"Uh. The thing about..." Alexander swallows, his mouth flooded with a strong and sour taste. "The thing about limits."

"Knowing limits?" Laurens looks sideways at him. The flashing party lights illuminate his cheekbones and freckles. Alexander looks away. 

"Huh. Yeah."

"What about it?"

"I don't think that I do," Alexander says. 

"Don't think that you do what?"

Alexander's vision goes all tilt-y for a second. "Know my limits," he says, and almost throws up.

* * *

 

 

Later, they wind up sitting on a ratty couch in the basement. Alexander feels sick with alcohol, his stomach turning and chest tight. He leans against Laurens' shoulder, dizzy, and watches people dance to 90s rap. 

"I'm really drunk," Alexander says loudly, more to himself than anyone else. Laurens silently pulls him down so that Alexander is laying across his lap; after a moment, Alexander feels fingers stroking his hair. He closes his eyes and lets everything just spin around him for a minute: the music and the lights visible even behind his closed eyelids and the smell of Laurens' soap. Everything feels weirdly balanced, then. If Alexander doesn't breathe too deeply or shift around a lot, he doesn't feel sick. 

The feeling of Laurens' hand on his head, touching him softly and with a kind of purpose, ground him. 

Alexander doesn't really remember leaving, except for a few minutes of stumbling on a brick walkway and then the asphalt of the street. And vomiting in someone's yard—he remembers that very clearly, and probably will for a long time. Lafayette puts a hand on his back and says, "damn,  _ami_ , you gotta learn how to handle your liquor". 

Mulligan has, apparently, gone home with someone, and Alexander can't find his room key. After a few minutes of drunkenly digging through his pockets outside the dorm (Alexander finds old receipts, gum, and a dollar in quarters, but no key lanyard), Laurens sighs with mock exasperation and hauls Alexander up to his room.

It's dark and warm inside, all the windows closed. Alexander trips spectacularly over Laurens' absent roommate's shoes and steadies himself on a spartan desk. Laurens turns on a desk light, illuminating the room. The walls are pretty stark—a South Carolina state flag, white palmetto tree and half-moon against a dark blue background, hangs on the wall above Laurens' bed. The only other decoration is a black-and-white photograph tacked up above Laurens' desk, but Alexander is too tired and too drunk to get a better look. 

"You just wanna sleep here?" Laurens pulls off his jacket and tugs his t-shirt over his head. Alexander stares silently.

"Um," he says. 

"Look, you're not going home tonight,  _ése_." 

"Sure," Alexander mutters. Laurens pulls back his blankets and climbs into bed, expectantly looking at Alexander.

"You want in?"

"I'll sleep on the floor." Alexander folds up his jacket and throws it into the carpet. Laurens rolls his eyes.

"Get in the damn bed, man." Laurens pauses. "But turn the light off first."

Alexander snaps the light off, keeps his t-shirt on, strips down to his boxers, and slides into Laurens' bed. He's still very drunk, and his stomach clenches up in waves of nausea. In the still darkness, it's easier to concentrate on being drunk and sick than the fact that he's lying about two inches from Laurens. He doesn't even care, can't care, not now, not when everything in his stomach is currently climbing up into his throat and—

Alexander leaps out of Laurens' bed, staggers to the doorway, and slams his way down the hallway. As soon as he's inside the bathroom stall he falls to his knees, vomiting loudly and excessively. After a moment of unadulterated misery, Laurens appears and leans against the stall door, one hand between Alexander's shoulder blades. The gesture is so sweet that Alexander nearly cries. 

Afterwards, Laurens digs through a cardboard box until he finds an extra toothbrush and gives Alexander his toothpaste and when Alexander comes back to the room Laurens is lying on his side, looking at Alexander, and when he says "you okay now, bro?", his voice is rough with tiredness and alcohol and something thrums sweet and low in Alexander's chest.

"Yeah," Alexander murmurs, and turns the light off. "Still alright if I sleep here?"

"Of course," Laurens says quietly. Alexander gets back into the bed. Before he falls asleep, lulled by the liquor in his system and Laurens' breathing, he thinks suddenly and overwhelmingly of Edward. 

* * *

He wakes up a little after dawn the next morning, gray light filtering in through the window. The first thing that Alexander sees is the South Carolina state flag on the wall. Then Laurens, still asleep next to him. And Laurens' hand, touching Alexander's in the space between them. 

For a long time after that, Alexander tries very hard not to think about anything at all.

He doesn't move his hand away. 

* * *

 

He falls asleep again, wakes up once when Laurens shifts in his sleep and lays an arm across Alexander's stomach and again at around noon to find the bed empty. Alexander lies on his back for what feels like forever, bidding the pounding headache behind his temples away, until Laurens comes back into the room wearing a towel and nothing else.

Alexander has never thought so  _deeply_ about a whitewashed ceiling before. He's certain that if he had more time, he could distinguish a map of the Caribbean in the sunlight-and-shadow pattern overhead. 

After that, Laurens practically drags Alexander to the campus café to get coffee.

"You gotta drink some, man. Straight-up. Black." 

"I think that my stomach is revolting against me," Alexander gripes, shoulders hunched in the thin material of his jacket. Despite the early-afternoon sun, he feels cold and shivery. "Why did I do this?"

"Just drink." Laurens thrusts a cup of hot, strong black coffee into Alexander's hands. Across the café, he sees Aaron Burr sitting with a short, pretty girl. Maybe they're working on something academic, but the way that Burr smiles when the girl talks belies something else. 

* * *

 

"Wild night?" Mulligan asks when Alexander steps into the room, grinding his thumbs into his temples.

"Something like that," Alexander mutters, shirking his jacket. He sits on the edge of his bed to untie his sneakers.

"Yeah?" Mulligan sits up. He's wearing a cat-like smile. "You get lucky?"

"Um."  _Why_ is Alexander blushing? "No, man."

"You didn't come back last night," Mulligan says pointedly. 

"I slept in Laurens' room." Alexander kicks his shoes off. "On the floor," he adds, and then isn't sure why. 

"Probably a good thing you didn't come back to the room," Mulligan says. "Woulda found a sock on the door, you feel me?"

"Aye, nice!" Alexander fist-bumps Mulligan, ignoring the tightness in his chest. He digs through his laundry bag until he finds a semi-clean towel—gross, Alexander needs to do laundry like nobody's business—and quickly takes off his jeans and shirt before hurrying down the hall to the bathroom. He jerks off in the shower, concentrating on the white tile wall and nameless, faceless, anonymous bodies. That proves to be impossible; Alexander keeps thinking, unbidden, about Laurens. Specifically, John Laurens on his knees, in front of Alexander, and one of Alexander's hands tangled in his curly dark hair, and his mouth,  _Christ_ , that mouth, on—

"Fuck." Alexander comes hard, whimpering a little. He bites down on the back of his palm and grabs his soap, praying that nobody else is listening in. 

* * *

 

Sunday morning finds Alexander at the campus café, reading for Poli Sci. He still hasn't bought any of his textbooks, has in fact been putting it off because he's afraid of how it'll cost. But Washington has been assigning them readings that he emails out, which Alexander thinks is pretty generous.

He's running highlighter across a paragraph when someone says,

"Hey."

Alexander looks up. Eliza Schuyler is standing in front of him, wearing a gray sweatshirt and jean capris and a curious smile. She makes a  _can I sit down_ gesture with her hand, still looking at Alexander. He hurriedly shoves his papers and notebook out of the way, balances his coffee cup on top of his Poli Sci binder. 

"Eliza, right?" Of course he already knows her name; it ran through his head the entire way home. She nods, looks at Alexander over the rim of her coffee cup. Her hair is the color of jet. When she smiles, Alexander's heart jumps a little.

"And you're Alexander Hamilton." There is something sing-song in her voice when she says his name, something almost musical. "You and Angelica are in Professor Washington's class together."

"Yeah." 

"Do you like it?" Eliza puts her cup down, tilts her head. "Angelica says that you talk a lot in class. That you always have something good to say, something smart."

"I do my best," Alexander says. "Your sister's smart as hell. I'm sure you know that." 

"Believe me."

Alexander wonders for a moment what the Schuyler household might have been like, what growing up with Angelica as an older sister means. Then he thinks about James, about long hot nights lying in their shared bed while James recited Latin and Greek aloud; and then, after Peter had killed himself, when James moved away to work for a carpenter and came back with rough hands and dirty jokes. And he came to visit less and less, and then got a girl pregnant and stopped talking to Alexander almost altogether. 

Later, when they've drunk their coffees and Alexander is walking Eliza back towards her dorm, she asks what he's studying.

"Political Science," Alexander says. "I want to work for the government."

"Big dreams." Eliza readjusts her textbooks under her arm. There's nothing snide in the statement. 

Alexander smiles sideways at her, and he's suddenly full of hope and something that he thinks is affection. "You have no idea."

* * *

 

On Monday afternoon, after his classes end, Alexander goes to the campus bookstore. 

He has a list of all the textbooks that he needs, figures that he'll start with Poli Sci because that will probably be the most expensive. A quick patrol of the stacks reveals that the Political Science textbook that Washington has assigned costs a hundred and fifty dollars. Alexander blanches, shoves the book back onto the shelf. 

 _Fuck_. 

 

He spends the next ten minutes finding all of his required texts, afraid to calculate how much the books will cost. By the time he dumps them on the bookstore counter, Alexander is practically sweating. A bored-looking girl rings him up while Alexander nervously cracks his knuckles.

"Five hundred seventeen seventy-five." 

"What?" Alexander coughs, craning his neck to see the cash register. He can't believe it. 

"Five hundred and seventeen dollars, seventy-five cents." She stares at him. "How are you gonna pay?"

"I'm." Alexander swallows. He feels totally sick. "Um, I'm. I'm gonna come back. Can I just...?" He makes a vague motion, grabs the textbooks. They suddenly feel so heavy, ridiculously so. "I'm just gonna put these back."

The boy behind him in like says, "Dude, books are only gonna get more expensive". 

Alexander doesn't remember going back to his dorm, but before he knows it he's lying on his bed with his eyes screwed up shut. He feels on the verge of tears. All he can think is:  _I'm not supposed to be here_.

* * *

 

"Like...how the  _fuck_ is this worth two hundred dollars?" Alexander shakes his Political Science textbook. "It's literally  _paper_!"

"Hey, man, that's why we rented." Laurens says. They're sitting in Alexander's dimly-lit room, working on their second week's worth of homework. Alexander rolls his eyes. 

"Everything here is so goddamn expensive. I thought that college would be expensive, but I didn't know  _how_ expensive." 

Laurens lets out a low, almost incredulous laugh. "Man, didn't your parents warn you about this shit?"

Alexander falters. He hasn't told Laurens about his past—how dramatic, that he has  _a past_. Like it's some shameful secret that he has to hide. Like he doesn't already have enough shameful secrets.

"My parents never went to college," Alexander says evenly. "And they're not around, anyways." 

There's a beat of silence. Something, words, explanations, bump against Alexander's teeth. He wants to talk and he wants to tell Laurens because there's something in him that trusts this boy more than he trusts his other friends. He doesn't know how to explain that.

"I'm an orphan," Alexander says slowly, staring at his textbook. "My mom died when I was twelve. My father wasn't around." 

"I'm sorry," Laurens murmurs. Nothing in his tone suggests pity. Alexander values that more than anything. 

"Don't be. No offense."

"None taken." Laurens pauses, looks up from his position on the floor. "I'm really glad that you're here, Alexander." 

Alexander feels a funny falling sensation. 

"Yeah," he says softly, meeting Laurens' gaze. Neither of them look away. "Yeah, me too." 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else remember how writers on fanfiction.net used to refuse to update fics until they got x number of reviews or likes or whatever? that was a whack website. i used to read like star trek 2009 and NCIS fanfiction on there. damn. anyways, hope y'all liked this chapter.


	3. The Streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo did y'all know that lin-manuel miranda HAS READ HAMILTON FICS?!?! which, like, if i was the mastermind of a game-changing broadway show i sure as hell would, too. anyways @ lin-manuel miranda if ur reading this thank u for creating hamilton (and heights) and giving us all ownership of an oppressive historical narrative also for representing first-gen people (americans and college students) onstage xoxo
> 
> content warning for a homophobic slur and description of underage sex and dubious consent

**THREE**

* * *

 

September passes quickly—a rushed time, new assignments and figuring out how to talk to professors and getting lost on the way to your dorm room—and suddenly it's October, and Alexander knows his way around campus and is cramming for midterms. 

The Poli Sci midterm is going to be difficult. Alexander knows this because Washington insinuated as much in class, then pointedly refused to answer further questions about it. Alexander had swallowed his question (far too embarrassing to ask: _how should we study? Just re-read our notes?_ ) and watched Aaron Burr smile that sly, sideways smile.

* * *

 

It's around this time that Alexander begins to hear rumors circulating between his classmates; whispers about a departmental internship position overseen by Washington. Any student committed to the Political Science department can apply, and that includes freshmen. As soon as he hears this, Alexander is overcome with passion.

"From what I hear," Angelica confides in the hallway outside the lecture hall, "it's crazy competitive. Like, has ended friendships. Made enemies of students."

Alexander swallows. He doesn't say what he's thinking, but he's certain that Angelica can read it on his face, plain as day. 

* * *

 

In their discussion that Friday, Alexander his hand and asks if the rumors are true—that at the end of every semester Washington hires department interns and that even freshmen are eligible. 

"Eligible? Yes." Burr leans against the edge of the desk. It's such a natural position; he looks like a professor, Alexander thinks, despite his glaring youthfulness. Like he's studied Washington for long enough to have the moves down—when to lean, when to pace, when to gesture and when to just shake his head and answer in an admonishing tone. "But it's rare for a freshmen to be hired. It's really a position intended for juniors and seniors." Then he hesitates. "Although I would be hypocritical to say that only juniors and seniors should apply."

 _Oh, my god_. Alexander realizes, in a heated rush, that of course Burr is applying and of course he thinks that he'll be the intern.

"Are there specific qualifications?" Alexander asks without raising his hand. "How we do get more information?"

Burr shoots him a swift, dismissive glance. "Go to the department's page on the school website." 

For the remainder of the discussion, Alexander obsesses over the internship. He waits until the rest of the class has packed up and left, then approaches Burr at the front of the room. 

"I'm applying for the internship," he says. Burr smiles; it's not entirely cold, but lacks what Alexander feels is any kind of sincerity. 

"Of course you are." Burr doesn't sound rude. He turns away from Alexander, packs up his backpack. When he turns back around, he looks surprised to see that Alexander is still there. "Do you need help with something, Hamilton?"

"Yeah," Alexander returns, bristling a little at the use of his surname. "Why do you sound so dismissive?"

Burr presses his lips together. "Look," he says. "No offense, but the position is extremely competitive. Like I said, freshmen are rarely hired."

"You're only a sophomore," Alexander says shortly. 

"I have experience, outside of school and in the department." Burr pauses. "No offense, but I doubt that you're qualified enough."

The words hurt, even more so because Alexander knows that they're true. 

"I guess we'll see," he says. "If a freshman  _can_ get hired."

Burr watches Alexander with an air of vague surprise, and a flicker of what Alexander thinks  _might_ be respect. 

"It would certainly be something of an exception, Hamilton."

This time, Alexander does not bristle. 

* * *

 

Mid-October is rainy. It's a cold, wet rain, far different than anything Alexander has ever experienced. The kind of cold that gets in through your jacket and bites your bare skin. He comes to Laurens' room one evening, straight from the library and soaking wet. Laurens is sprawled on his bed, Mulligan at the desk. Alexander stands in the doorway, dripping rainwater on the floor. The room is dimly-lit, still spartanly clean. Laurens is meticulous in that aspect—he owns very little, and keeps his side of the room very neat. 

"It's fucking  _freezing_ ," Alexander mutters, taking off his rain jacket. Laurens and Mulligan exchange a glance.

"Dude," Mulligan says. "You're wearing  _one_ thin-ass jacket. Of course you're cold."

"What?" Alexander pulls the elastic band out of his ponytail.

"Come on, you're, like, what, one-thirty soaking wet?" Laurens smirks good-naturedly. "Maybe one-forty, if we're pushing it."

"Shut  _up_ ," Alexander laughs, rolls his eyes. "One-thirty, if you  _must_ know."

"Thought it wasn't polite to ask a lady's weight," Mulligan sing-songs. Alexander drops to the floor dramatically, pulling notebooks out of his backpack. He reaches over and punches Mulligan's arm, not hard enough to hurt. 

"Whatever, guys. I've never even  _seen_ rain like this." 

"I always forget that you're from the Caribbean," Laurens says distractedly, not looking up from his textbook. Alexander sits on the carpet, leaning against Laurens' bedframe. After a while, Laurens reaches down and starts running his hands through Alexander's damp hair. It's an absentminded gesture, but there is something intentional in Laurens' repetition that floods Alexander's chest and stomach with warmth.

Part of him wants to cast this aside as nothing—a friendly touch—but something in the motion belies affection, maybe, something that Alexander can't  _quite_ put a name to. He leans into Laurens' touch. Laurens hesitates.

"Keep going," Alexander says quietly. "I like it."

Mulligan glances over, his gaze lingering for a moment before he looks away. Alexander doesn't care, and that surprises him. He presses back against the edge of Laurens' bed, the feeling of fingers carding through his hair soothing, grounding. Alexander can't shake the distinct feeling that there is something running between them, something like electricity. An energy the color and warmth of the yellow lamplight. He lets his eyes fall half-closed and leans back further into Laurens' touch. 

* * *

 

"Layers, man." Laurens pushes Alexander towards a rack of heavy jackets. "You need a winter jacket, a good raincoat, and a hat. And scarves and shit, for when it starts snowing."

"Damn." Alexander pulls at the jackets' sleeves. The department store's interior is all white tiles and cheesy Muzak. "I never even thought about  _needing_ all this stuff." He feels kind of embarrassed, immature, like he should have thought about it long before moving to New York. 

"You've never had to," Laurens shrugs. He pulls a jacket off the hangar and thrusts it at Alexander. "Try this on."

Alexander glances at the price tag—on clearance, thankfully—before shrugging the jacket over his shoulders. It's dark green, thick wool. He glances in the mirror. It looks good. Alexander's not vain by any stretch of the word—he doesn't really think about his appearance a lot, beyond an ebbing insecurity over his inability to grow a beard—but he can admit when something looks sharp.

"You look—uh, the jacket looks good." Laurens brushes invisible lint off of Alexander's shoulder. "Looks real sharp."

They stare at each other. Then Laurens coughs, looks away, brushing his thumb over his mouth.

"Uh, we can keep looking, you know..."

"No, I'm gonna buy this." Alexander strikes a ridiculous pose in the mirror. Laurens laughs and everything's alright, everything's normal again. 

* * *

Fall Break comes around the week before Halloween. Alexander has only been vaguely aware of the vacation period—it's only a four-day weekend, so barely enough time to actually travel anywhere—and it's not as if he could go  _home_ anyways. Mulligan does, though; it makes sense, because he lives upstate and it's only a few hours' drive on the highway. In Mulligan's absence, Lafayette comes around a lot. Alexander doesn't know Lafayette too well, outside of scant conversations they've had about classes and homework, so he's glad for the company.

"You're from the Caribbean, yeah?" Lafayette says as they walk across campus together. The trees are rapidly becoming bare, and the sky overhead is a foreboding slate gray. 

"Born in Puerto Rico, grew up on Nevis and then Saint Croix." If he remembers hard enough, he can still see the apartment in Puerto Rico.

"Yeah? Must've been beautiful." Lafayette puts his hands in his pockets. 

"It's." Alexander pauses, unsure of how to articulate what he's thinking; how to put words to the beauty, the pain, the  _weight_ of everything he's seen and heard and felt. "It was beautiful, but hard. Poverty like—like most people have never seen. Never imagined." _  
_

"Never had to," Lafayette mutters.

Alexander hums. "Yeah."

"I know how you feel," Lafayette says after a moment. "Not exactly, I won't claim that. But coming here, it's. Uh. When you tell people that you're from France, they think fashionable cities and baguette. When you say  _Paris_ , they think city of love, la Tour Eiffel, you know? When you're me, though, when you're black, they look at you funny. Like you're not supposed to come from France. Like you can't  _be_ French."

Although he speaks quietly and evenly, there is bitterness in Lafayette's voice. Alexander nods silently, kicks at some dead leaves by the side of walkway. 

"My parents are immigrants," Lafayette continues lightly. "I grew up in a  _banlieue_ north of Paris. Not what most people think of when they hear  _City of Lights_." _  
_

Alexander has a vague understanding of the Parisian suburbs—housing projects, immigrant families, poverty and violence. That, at least, isn't so far from home.

" _Les HLMs, oui?_ "

Lafayette's neutral facial expression dissipates immediately, replaced with a smile so wide Alexander is certain that it hurts a little. 

"Alexander Hamilton! You've been holding out on me,  _ami_!  _Tu parles français!_ " He shoves Alexander with ill-disguised glee.

" _Ma mère parlait quand j'étais petit. Avant—mais tu sais, donc_."

Lafayette nods silently. " _Désolé_ , Alexander,  _c'est horrible. Vraiment_."

"It's just nice to speak the language," Alexander says, switching easily back to English. "When you don't have anyone to speak with, it's easy to forget grammar, stuff like that."

He doesn't mention that every syllable takes him back to Nevis, to Saint Croix, to Spanish and French creole and the sweet, sweet rhythm of home. His mother singing to him in  French and his friends telling dirty jokes in Crucian and knowing Spanish as easily as he knew English, as easily as he knew himself. He doesn't mention how much it  _hurts_ , wearing the pain like a second skin. How around Laurens, his accent switches smoothly and he drops the ends of his words, throws around Spanish slang because he knows that Laurens will understand, that he won't be just another stupid Puerto Rican kid who doesn't know how to clean up his language when he should. 

"I really like you, Alexander," Lafayette says, and it's not appraisingly, not with that kind of curious tone that people sometimes use when they learn things about Alexander's background. "For real, I mean it."

Alexander's chest is filled with a buoyant warmth. As they walk to the dining hall, Lafayette talks about the upcoming Canadian elections and immigration policies. 

"I'm studying International Affairs for a reason, you know," he mutters grimly when Alexander mentions the United States' dim view of immigration reform. "Things in France are very different in some ways." His eyes darken, and he juts his chin out a little. "And in some ways, they are still exactly the same."

* * *

_"We're gonna go down to the beach tonight, you want in?" Rodrigo stretches bubble gum between his teeth and his tongue. "Lupe's brother can get us booze. Anything we want, if we give him some money."_

_"Maybe." Alexander shrugs. He doesn't really like drinking, and he's never been properly drunk before. "I'll ask Edward if he's down."_

_"Uh," Rodrigo runs his tongue over his lower lip. "Yeah, don't do that, man."_

_"Why?" Alexander squints in the midday sunlight. Around them, the street is alive with vendors and shoppers, a tangle of creole French and crucian English rising like a tide. Rodrigo folds his arms, hands under his armpits. He spits on the ground._

_"I been hearing shit around lately. You know. That he's, uh. A faggot."_

_At once, Alexander leaps forward, right fist curling around Rodrigo's t-shirt collar. He holds the other boy tight, doesn't let go even when Rodrigo thrashes._

_"He's not." Alexander spits. He pushes his face up close to Rodrigo's, to show that he means business. "He's fucking_ not _._ I've _lived with him a year now, and he's fuckin' not."_

_"Fine, whatever, fine," Rodrigo, skinny and shorter than Alexander by a head, twists away. He straightens his shirt. "Guess I just heard some rumors and shit around school."_

_"Well, they're fucking wrong." Alexander says. Then, with an air of nonchalance that he hopes doesn't sound forced: "Come on, you think I would live with him if he. You know?"_

_"No, whatever." Rodrigo looks almost embarrassed. "Don't matter, anyways. Forget it."_

_"Yeah," Alexander agrees, pretends he's not breathing hard. "Forget it."_

_He walks home alone, hands thrust deep in his pockets so nobody can see how hard they're shaking._

* * *

 

 Laurens doesn't go home either. Alexander doesn't ask why, and Laurens doesn't offer an explanation. Instead, he keeps mostly to himself, and Alexander doesn't see him until Saturday night. Then Laurens comes and knocks on Alexander's door, his hair damp with rain. 

"Can I come in?"

Alexander steps back, ushering Laurens inside. "Yeah, of course." He watches Laurens sit on the edge of Mulligan's bed.

"Mulligan is upstate, right?"

"Yeah." 

Laurens makes an  _mm-hm_ kind of sound, looks down. "Gets lonely here at night."

"Um." Alexander coughs. "Ha. Yeah."

"My neighbors keep having parties and not asking me to come over, so." 

"They suck." Alexander says. "Don't you have a roommate?"

"Yeah. He went home, though." Laurens pauses. "Kid named James. He's always smoking with his best friend in the room. Weed, cigarettes. Not that I mind the weed, but. Sometimes they get really loud. Argue a lot, but in a friendly way. If that makes any sense."

 "No, I feel you." Alexander is keenly aware of his posture, the placement of his hands, his facial expression. When Laurens looks at him, he feels weird bright warmth in his chest and stomach; the places right behind his breastbone. 

"Anyways, I'm gonna text Lafayette and ask if he's down to go a used bookstore. It's downtown, maybe thirty minutes on the train." 

"Sure!" Alexander says, maybe a little too loudly. He drops his voice, like, an entire octave before repeating, "Yeah, sure."

"Cool." Laurens types out a rapid-fire text message. "Guess we'll wait and see if Lafayette can come." 

They sit in silence for a moment, during which Alexander thinks that by now—nearly two months into the school year—he should feel a lot closer to Laurens and Lafayette than he actually does, and he's wondering if it's  _him_ , if it's because he's too loud or too weird or talks too much. Or studies too much, or is too poor or dresses badly, or—

"Lafayette's down," Laurens says. "He's meeting us at the subway stop on the south side of campus."

Laurens watches Alexander shrug on his winter jacket and scrounge his wallet from the depths of his desk drawers. As they walk across campus in the gathering darkness, he says,

"So, Political Science."

"I know," Alexander says. "We're not all white Republicans."

Laurens snorts with laughter. "All the people I know from back home who studied Poli Sci wound up, like, old-ass political analysts and shit." 

"Hey, we'll see what I do with my degree." Alexander says. "No promises." Then, because he can't  _not_ be serious about it, "But I want to work for the government."

"In what capacity?"

Alexander doesn't pause before launching in. "Growing up, I saw—all this shit, you know? Poverty, unspeakable violence, addiction and pain the likes of which most people at this school can't even conceptualize. I obsessed over freedom—this ideal that I couldn't quite name, you know, something that I thought if I worked hard enough, I could experience. I could  _know_. But the Caribbean—Saint Croix, Nevis—the political scene there is really dire. Corruption, fraud. It's so far from the mainland that the American government doesn't even feel  _real_. Everything political feels really peripheral, like it doesn't actually influence peoples' lives. I want to be a voice in the government who comes from that place. Yeah, all this shit has  _sucked_ , but why should that stop me?"

Laurens doesn't look at him. "Idealistic." There isn't animosity in the statement, but Alexander senses something unsaid; something that maybe Laurens won't talk about unless pushed. 

"And don't get me started on Puerto Rico's debt crises."

Laurens laughs again at that, rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. "Jesus, what're we gonna  _do_ with you?"

A cold wind kicks up, stirs dead leaves across the pavement. Alexander is glad that the rain has abated, however momentarily. He pretends to think while they hurry down the steps and into the dark mouth of the subway. Lafayette is standing on the platform, listening to tinny music through headphones. Alexander nudges Laurens in the ribs.

"Ask me again in four years."

* * *

 

Alexander spends three dollars on dog-eared books about politics—essays about abolition, amendments, the Constitution. Lafayette buys a copy of  _Les Misérables_ and then endures Alexander's ten-minute rant about how amazing the musical is (he's watched every available bootleg on YouTube and seen the movie twelve times). Laurens pays for two books in tattered dollar bills; a volume of poetry and a copy of Malcolm X's autobiography. 

The bookstore is amazing, Alexander's certain of it, just like he's certain that the coffee they buy on the way back is amazing. What he recalls with vivid clarity is that on the subway ride home, Laurens falls asleep with his head on Alexander's shoulder, and while Lafayette reads in the seat beside him, Alexander lets his fingers brush against Laurens' and feels that familiar warmth spread all through his chest. 

* * *

Washington tells him to apply for outside internships during the summer.

"I know that it's a long ways away, but start looking now and you'll be glad for it later."

"I don't know the first thing about applying for internships," Alexander confesses, leaning forward in his chair. Washington writes something down on an index card and pushes it across the desk.

"Ask Aaron Burr, your TA. He has experience with applications, interviews." Washington pauses. "I know that it can be difficult—if you're not prepared for this kind of thing in high school. How to conduct yourself in an interview, all that. You have an advantage, Alexander. You're very smart. Highest grade on the midterm—you set the class curve." 

Alexander knows this, because some of his classmates had thrown him dirty looks when he'd told them his grade (98%) and Angelica had said that she'd be damned if anyone had beaten her 90% and then hissed  _you didn't!_ and  _well, of course_ with a look of admiration. 

"Send him an email, or talk to him after class." Washington continues. Alexander slips the index card into his pocket.

"Thank you, sir. I will."

Washington smiles. "Alexander," he says, "there's no need to call me 'sir'."

* * *

 

He sees Aaron Burr on the way back from class one morning, walking very close to a short, dark-haired girl. 

"Aaron!" Alexander waves, breaking into a jog across the wet, muddy grass. "Aaron Burr!"

Burr pauses, throws his head back in exasperation. Then he turns around, hastily relinquishing his grip on the girl's hand. "What do you want, Alexander?"

"I asked Washington about internship applications."

"Okay?" Burr looks on-edge, a little jumpy. 

"Sorry if I'm interrupting your date," Alexander offers. At once, Burr pales.

"This isn't—you're not..." He steps forward, lowers his voice. " _Look_. I'm happy to—help you with internship applications or  _whatever_ , if you ask me  _after class_."

The girl behind them arches one eyebrow. "Everything okay, Aaron?"

Burr glances over his shoulder, smiling. "Fine, ba—Theo."

Alexander, who has a knack for guessing what people are about to say, is fairly certain that Burr had been about to call her  _babe_. 

"Um, I'll catch you later, I guess." Alexander says, somewhat uneasily. 

"I can't wait," Burr says flatly. He turns around, hooks an arm around the girl's shoulders. Alexander watches them walk away. Burr does not look back.

* * *

 

The next time Alexander sees them on campus, walking together, Burr lowers his head and quickly hustles the girl—Theo—in the opposite direction. They aren't holding hands this time.

* * *

 

When Alexander's phone rings the first time, he thinks that it's a dream. Then it rings again, and he jolts awake. Mulligan shifts in his sleep, mutters something. Alexander fumbles his cell phone from the top of his chest of drawers.

The name flashes across the screen. Alexander's stomach sours immediately. 

"Hello?" He answers, whispering.

"Alex? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me." Pulling on socks and shoes, Alexander balances the phone between his shoulder and ear. He grabs his jacket and keys and slips through the door before Mulligan actually wakes up. "What's, uh. Why are you...?"

"Guy's not allowed to call his brother?"

 _Don't call me that_. Alexander swallows. His footsteps are too loud in the silent hallway, on the stairs. Outside, the cold bites at him immediately. 

"Edward, it's late." 

"It's only, what? Two?"

"Almost three," Alexander says. He paces on the strip of concrete between the back of the dorm and the parking lot, shivering with cold. It's a weekday night, which means no parties. There are very few people outside; a few students are smoking cigarettes at the other end of the parking lot. 

"Forgot you're a college boy now. Gotta get up early for your classes. Little  _Alexander_ , all grown up."

"You're drunk." 

"And?" Edward is slurring his words. Alexander swallows. "Too good for that now?"

"I didn't say that, Edward." 

"Yeah, yeah." A pause; static, hissing down the line. "I know. I'm bein' too hard on you." 

Alexander says nothing.

"How're things?"

"Fine." He doesn't want to get into this, he can't. "They're fine. It's cold here."

"Any pretty girls up there in New York City?" Another pause. Alexander hears Edward drink, swallow. "Any pretty  _boys_?"

"I'm hanging up," Alexander says. He hears the hardness in his voice and it surprises him. 

"Wait," Edward drawls. "Lemme tell you about things back home. Since you seem so eager to forget about us."

"I'm not—"

"I'm doin' alright, and my dad's alright, and Richard—remember Ricky, we all used to play baseball or some shit together? He's, uh, six feet under, fucked around with the wrong set, I guess, but then I never really got into all that shit. Good thing you didn't either, 'else you might've wound up like James."

"What?" Alexander coughs, inhaling frigid air. "What about James?"

"Just getting mixed up in some sketch shit down here, Alexander." 

"What do you mean?" Alexander hears his voice reach a high, desperate pitch. "Edward, what do you  _mean_?" _  
_

"Lately, I've been walkin' home at night, you know," Edward says. "Seen him down on the corners, sometimes with that girl of his, sometimes without her. Talkin' to people he shouldn't be talkin' to. Talkin'  _big_ , Alex. Like he forgot who raised him."

"We raised each other," Alexander snaps. Edward is silent. "Keep talking. Edward. Just keep—"

"I've told you what I know, bro." 

"Edward."

"Just thought I'd call, tell you the neighborhood news. Everyone's real proud of you, Alex. Everyone's real..."

"Edward, I need to know what James—"

"Don't you worry about James, now." Edward's voice is suddenly clearer, sharper. "You think I won't look out for him?"

Alexander sighs. "Uh. Yeah. No, I got you."

When Edward pauses this time, it's for longer. Then he says, "You know, Alex, I been missing you."

Alexander clears his throat.

"Real bad, Alex." Edward's voice is low in his throat. " _Real_ bad."

"I have to go." Alexander's breathing hard. "You call me if anything happens with James, yeah?"

"Fine. Yeah." Edward's voice changes again, hardens. Alexander hangs up and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply. It doesn't work; he feels himself start to panic and hurries inside before he actually does. He thinks about bumming a cigarette from the people smoking in the parking lot, but smoking always makes his throat feel disgusting and probably doesn't do wonders for his speaking voice.  

Instead, he goes back upstairs and lays on his bed in the still, blue silence. He doesn't get up to undress, just lays there on his back, staring at the ceiling without seeing anything. He's feeling too much, everything rushing in all at once. After a while, he sits up and pulls off his t-shirt and jeans, climbs back into bed and lies under his blanket. Alexander keeps seeing Edward, though, every time he closes his eyes. Keeps feeling the weight of someone else against him, hearing Edward whispering, feeling and hearing and being, and it's like he's sixteen years old again, back in the Caribbean. _  
_

* * *

_The first time that Alexander wakes up and finds Edward pressed against him, he doesn't think anything of it. They're fifteen years old, and it's January, the dry season. Muggy, humid. When he feels that Edward is hard, Alexander's cheeks heat up and he inches away on their shared bed._

_The second time, he doesn't move._

_It's May, the rainy season, and Alexander is sixteen. They still share a bed. He wakes up one night and sees Edward's eyes flashing in the semi-darkness. Edward is rocking against Alexander, slowly._

_"What are you doing?" Alexander instinctually shifts away, but Edward grabs his waist._

_"Wait. Don't." He's rubbing his cock against Alexander's side. All that Alexander can think is_ they were right _. Those boys in the school hallways, on the baseball diamond. They were right. "Alexander."_

_"This is wrong," Alexander says. "Edward, this is wrong."_

_"Shh," Edward says. His eyes close and then open again. He edges his fingers under the waistband of Alexander's boxers, and when he feels that Alexander is half-hard already he smirks. "Y'know it's not."_

_Alexander starts to protest but when Edward runs a thumb over the tip of his cock, he breaks off with a shuddering breath. Edward's hand is fast and slick, working over Alexander's hard-on, and Edward is grinding against him, and Alexander has never been this hard or felt this way. He comes suddenly, too quickly, slapping a hand over his mouth as he moans. Edward grinds down against Alexander's thigh and Alexander feels him come. Their attic bedroom is full of the sound of heavy breathing. Edward looks satiated, but Alexander feels dirty, wrong._

_A few weeks later, Thomas clears out one of the downstairs rooms, and that's where Alexander moves. Edward doesn't come into his room at night, and during the daytime everything between them is normal, almost brotherly._

_By the time Alexander turns seventeen, those few nights might as well have been a weird and unsettling dream._

* * *

He falls asleep in English the next day—fortunately, it's a sizable class, and a freshman conked out in the back of the lecture hall doesn't merit so much as a second glance. By the time he enters the dining hall during the lunchtime rush, Alexander is exhausted and jittery with hunger and nerves. He slides into a seat next to Lafayette, burying his head in his hands.

"I feel like shit."

"You  _look_ like shit," Laurens says around a mouthful of sandwich. "No offense."

"None taken." Alexander moans. He drags himself up and fills a mug with coffee, grabs a tasteless-looking sandwich (why is half of the food here the color of  _sand_?) and swipes his meal card. When he sits back down, Mulligan gives him a quick and appraising glance.

"You came back to the room pretty late last night."

Alexander makes a noncommittal _hm_. 

"You with someone?"

"What? No, I was. Someone called me." Alexander swallows scalding coffee, almost chokes. "From home."

"Nice," Mulligan says.

"Not really." 

There's a moment of silence, the tension growing, and Alexander is about to explain (and, he thinks, regret it) when Eliza Schuyler appears behind Mulligan, touches his shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Hercules, we're gonna meet in the library at three for the—" she sees Alexander and ducks her head a little. "Group project."

"Sounds good," Mulligan says. Lafayette, meanwhile, is glancing between Eliza and Alexander. His eyes narrow a little. As soon as Eliza's out of earshot, Lafayette leans up against Alexander's shoulder. 

"Anything you'd like to tell us,  _mon ami_?"

"What?" Alexander feigns ignorance—a practice that has never, in his entire life, worked in any realm.

"Maybe something about a certain  _girl_?"

Alexander's cheeks go red. He knows this—he's always been prone to blushing—and the thought of flushing scarlet-cheeked like a schoolboy is so embarrassing that he blushes even more. 

"She's not—we met at a party."

"Go ooonnnn," Mulligan implores, leaning forward. Across the table, Laurens' gaze lingers on Alexander's face, his lips pressed shut, and then flickers away. Alexander's stomach tightens a little. 

"We just met at a party. Her older sister is in my Poli Sci class, she introduced us." Then, seeing Lafayette's knowing smirk, "Nothing  _happened_ , guys." 

Mulligan and Lafayette look thoroughly unconvinced, but all that Alexander can think about is Laurens—the look on his face, the quick glance away. There was something in that look, and Alexander is almost afraid to put a word to it. 

* * *

 

"The show is downtown," Lafayette says, squinting at his phone screen. "At some dive bar—but to hear French rap, like,  _real_ French rap in this city..."

"No, I'm down." Alexander kneels on the dorm room floor to lace his sneakers. "Starts at ten?"

"Mm-hmm. Five dollars at the door, and all ages are admitted." 

"Perfect." Alexander pulls his jacket on, shoves his wallet into the pocket. Maybe it's a little irresponsible, ditching campus on a weeknight to go to a show, but Alexander misses hearing rapid-fire French hip-hop: the sweet, familiar sound of home. Going with Lafayette is better, and it feels good that Lafayette asked him to come. 

On the way to the subway stop, Lafayette brings up Eliza.

"That girl," he says, and Alexander knows immediately who he's talking about. "You really met at a party?"

"Yeah." 

"She likes you."

Alexander heaves a sigh. "Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Eliza," Alexander says, and her name feels solid and right on his tongue. 

"Eliza." Lafayette laughs as they swipe their Metro Cards, push through the grimy turnstile. "That's the name of the first girl that I had a crush on."

"What happened?"

Lafayette laughs, swings his backpack higher up. "Realized that I wasn't into girls."

Their train is pulling into the station, but everything around Alexander screeches to a halt.

" _What_?" 

The doors open and tired commuters step out, pushing past Lafayette and Alexander.

"I'm gay," Lafayette says. He says it with a kind of casualness that sets off an illicit thrill in Alexander's stomach. Lafayette sounds self-assured, like it's easy for him to talk about, or like he's tricked himself into believing that it is. 

Alexander sits down on the grimy plastic seat next to Lafayette, jingling his keys nervously inside his pocket. "Do your, uh, parents..."

"No, they don't know." Lafayette looks as if he's about to say something else, pauses before saying in a rush, "They don't believe in homosexuality."

Alexander doesn't say anything. The train suddenly feels too cramped and crowded, and it's hard to breath. He inhales deeply, but the air is stale and hot and smells like sweat. They pull into the tunnel, and the windows black out. Alexander listens to the rattling of the subway on the tracks and tries not to look at Lafayette, like he's afraid that if he does Lafayette will know exactly what he's thinking.

* * *

The internship applications—the  _departmental internship applications_ —are due at midnight on a Friday. Wednesday night finds Alexander sitting in the library, rewriting his personal statement for the umpteenth time, so frustrated that he's actually on the verge of shouting into the almost-silence. 

_Since I began to seriously study United States history, policies, foreign affairs, and economics, I have known that my academic passion lies in Political Science. Growing up in a U.S. territory has afforded me the opportunity to see firsthand how politics work—and fail to work—in parts of the nation that are vastly different than the continental United States. I come from a background in which young people are typically apathetic towards politics, which has_

The cursor blinks tauntingly. Alexander highlights the paragraph and deletes it.  _Fuck_. He grits his teeth. Making sweeping generalizations about American politics? So elementary, as Burr would say. Complaining about his class background? Mentioning his status as a first-gen college student to impress the department with his political and academic acumen? Gross, almost fetishizing.

"Fuck." Tears fill Alexander's eyes, unbidden. He's hot with embarrassment. How could he be so stupid, so arrogant—assuming that because he's witty and a good writer and makes comments in class that impress Washington, he'll become an intern in a department that rarely hires freshmen? How could he think that a poor brown kid from a fucking island in the middle of the Caribbean, impoverished, in squalor, grow up and become some kind of hero, some lauded scholar? That working harder than everyone else, that being naturally more clever and sharp-witted, gives him the  _right_ to a position? That a kid with rich parents and  _connections_ isn't going to show up and get hired instead? 

The tears are real, now; Alexander hates that it's barely the middle of the semester and he's already crying in the library. He slams his laptop shut—an outdated PC model—and shoves it into his backpack, hurries downstairs and into the men's bathroom. There's someone washing their hands at the sink, but Alexander shoves past without seeing them.

"Alexander?"

He recognizes that voice a little too well, too quickly.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck—_

"Are you alright?" Aaron Burr turns around, grabbing some paper towels from the dispenser. Alexander halts, swiping at his eyes with the palms of his hands. 

"Yeah. Fine."

Burr silently hands him a paper towel. "It's a rough time in the semester."

"It's not that," Alexander says stiffly. He doesn't want Burr to think that he's academically overwhelmed, that it's too hard for him. There's a moment of awkward silence, Burr standing uncomfortably while Alexander dries his eyes and blows his nose. 

"Do you want to..." Burr asks, an unmistakable  _I'm going to regret asking this_ look on his face. "Talk about it?" He's practically cringing, probably expecting a verbal onslaught. Alexander shakes his head, balls up the paper towel and chucks it into the trashcan. He turns on the tap and splashes his face with lukewarm water. 

"It's nothing. Really."

"Um. Alright." Burr sounds unconvinced, but he doesn't press. Alexander appreciates that, enough so that he's tempted to tell Burr at least something—just to disprove the freshman-stressed-out-over-homework-and-midterms assumption that Burr's probably already made. 

"I'm frustrated," he says. "Do you ever feel like other people know exactly what to do and say here, like they've been prepared for this and you're just kind of improvising everything?" When Burr glances away, Alexander adds, "It's just difficult, you know, not having anyone to rely on. Like, we can't call our parents and ask for advice, or help with app—uh, academic stuff. It just hurts, sometimes."

"I see," Burr says, somewhat hesitantly. He taps his fingers on the edge of the sink. "I'm sorry, Alexander. I know how difficult freshman year is."

 _That's not even half of it_ , Alexander wants to say.  _I know that you know, Burr. I know that you know what it's like._

He doesn't. Burr steps to the door but pauses with his fingers on the handle. When he looks back at Alexander, his expression is kind. 

"Alexander," he says. "Smile more." 

Then he's gone, leaving Alexander to stand at the sink and stare his reflection down in the grimy mirror. The kid gazes back at him, but he doesn't look passionate or ready to take on King's College one ardent speech at a time. He looks tired, anxious. 

Alexander looks away. Then he takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales slowly. He pulls the bathroom door open and strides back out into the library, relentless, refusing to back down. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. You Got Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just letting you know, there's sexual content and references to homophobia in this chapter—the rating is now mature, and the sex scenes in this fic are probably going to be fairly explicit. all sex scenes are consensual and i'll put warnings in the chapters with sex scenes. 
> 
> have y'all seen star wars: the force awakens because damn i'm digging that movie so much!

**FOUR**

 

It doesn't occur to Alexander so much as slap him in the face one morning. Lafayette and Mulligan don't have eight a.m. classes, which leaves Laurens and Alexander to meet up at the campus café almost every morning and steel themselves for an hour of wretchedly early lectures. In early November, Alexander shoulders through the doorway, bitterly cold, and when he sees Laurens sitting at a back table something kind of shifts in his chest. Like a switch being flipped. Laurens waves, and Alexander waves back, but as he digs change out of his pockets to pay for his coffee, Alexander thinks grimly that this realization is harder to swallow than any early-morning caffeine. 

A few days later, he's listening to a song—some 90s hip-hop song that he hadn't known he was missing out on until Laurens told him about it—and feels the same desperate, clenching feeling. Alexander can't ignore it anymore, can't push away what he knows is true. He's into Laurens. Like,  _really_ into Laurens. Desperately, very, into Laurens. 

Sometimes it's kind of abstract; the kind of  _liking_ someone that could easily be platonic. Sometimes it isn't. Like when Alexander dreams about Laurens' mouth on his and then lower, lower, on his cock, and in the dream they're both breathless. He wakes up rock-hard, mortified when Mulligan asks him if he's okay or if he's sick or something because he's breathing  _really hard_. That afternoon in the dining hall, Alexander can barely make eye contact with Laurens. 

He's never felt like this about anyone. Whenever Laurens touches him—puts a hand on his shoulder, wrestles him from behind, all typical roughhousing—Alexander's heartbeat quickens and he feels a kind of desperate longing. 

It should be harder than it is to pretend that everything he feels for Laurens is just close friendship. But Alexander, who has dealt with improvised confidence his entire life, knows how to handle this. Maybe it should be harder, but it isn't. 

*******

Alexander doesn't remember how the subject comes up, but they're in the dining hall. It's afternoon, and he's drinking coffee and paying only minimal attention to the open Poli Sci textbook on the table. Mulligan and Lafayette are talking about home, about parents, about things that Alexander carefully doesn't pay attention to either. He notices that across the table, Laurens is concentrating very hard on how much ketchup he's putting on his fries. 

Lafayette says something about sexuality, and he and Mulligan start talking about finding guys attractive—and then Alexander's realizing that Lafayette isn't  _out_ to anyone else—and Mulligan is saying that hell yeah, he thinks that some guys are fine as fuck. And Laurens is staring very hard at his plate. And Mulligan is laughing loudly. And Lafayette is making a joke about sucking dick. And Laurens glances up and his eyes meet Alexander's and they stare at each other for a brief, painful moment before Laurens looks down and away.

The image chases Alexander's thoughts around his head for the rest of the day.

*******

One night, Laurens falls asleep in the library. He and Alexander have been camped out in a study room since four o'clock, skipping dinner to write midterm papers. Alexander is halfway through a paragraph when he glances up to see Laurens asleep, his head on the table. Something warm and gentle rises in Alexander's chest; the kind of caring that he hasn't felt for anything or anyone in a very long time. Since James, but this is different; this is another kind of warmth, another kind of—

—he won't let himself apply the word _love_ to this situation, because even thinking that is horrifying. Alexander, watching the slow rise and fall of Laurens' chest, thinks about affection and caring and something powerful and nameless instead. 

*******

The night before Thanksgiving Break, Benjamin Franklin throws a showstopper of a party. He's kind of weird, a senior who lives off campus in a dingy brownstone, but Alexander and Laurens and Lafayette are readying themselves for a lonely break and any alcohol and loud music and distraction is more than welcome.

Lafayette can't afford to go back to France for the week, and Alexander has no home to return to. As for Laurens, it's anyone's guess. When asked about his plans for the break, he'd said something about sticking around campus and then refused to discuss the subject again. Alexander had recognized the glint in Laurens' eyes—something halfway between sadness and anger. 

Three shots of Jacks later, dancing with abandon to the throb of music in Ben Franklin's filthy living room, Alexander has forgotten entirely about Thanksgiving and home. The bass surrounds him, picks him up and pushes him forward; Lafayette is dancing in circles, drunker than Alexander has ever seen him, while Laurens grinds ridiculously into the air some three feet from Alexander's right hip.

When the urge to slide up against Laurens strikes him, Alexander doesn't push it away. Maybe it's the alcohol coursing fast and hot through his bloodstream—beer that he'd drunk in the too-white kitchen, shots swallowed by a beer pong table—but when Alexander moves against Laurens, Laurens doesn't jump away. Alexander thought that maybe he'd push him back, look shocked, but Laurens wraps his arms around Alexander's waist and grinds up against him. 

_Fuck_.

Alexander did  _not_ see this coming. He's grown up grinding jokingly against his friends—at parties, or when there were no girls around and they needed a body to press against in the darkness—but this is different, this is something strange and frightening and fucking  _awesome_. Alexander feels it everywhere, all through his body, in the same way that he feels the alcohol. A heady rush.

When Laurens pulls away, laughing, Alexander's stomach clenches up tight and sour. He isn't sure if Laurens has just felt what he has—that shock, pure and hot, running through the places where they had touched. Later, they stand in the bitter cold outside Ben Franklin's brownstone and pass a joint back and forth while Lafayette vomits into the hedgerow. Laurens puts a reassuring hand on Lafayette's shoulder blades—is that, like, his thing? Alexander wonders, comforting friends while they puke miserably and drunkenly?—and makes good-natured jokes about them all finding their drinking limits within the next four years. 

But Laurens is drunk, too, and by the time they leave Lafayette at his dorm he has that hazy-eyed look of highness. Alexander shoves his hands into his pockets, concentrates on not stumbling on the sidewalk in the dark. More than halfway to Laurens' building, he says,

"You going home tonight, Alex?"

The nickname sends a jolt straight through Alexander. His lips and tongue feel slow, and he can pretend it's with the cold when he replies,

"Can I stay with you?" 

Laurens gives him a sideways look. In the greenish cast of the streetlight, he looks knowing, appraising. Something flashes between them, unspoken. The rest of the walk is cold, nervous, silent.

*******

Laurens' room is dark. With only the wan light of the streetlight on the quad below the window, they pull off their winter jackets. Alexander kneels down to unlace his sneakers; when he straightens up, Laurens is staring at him. They're standing very close together. Suddenly, Alexander can't breathe. 

"John," he says. Laurens does not protest at the use of his first name. His face is half-lit, lips curved into a nervous smile. Alexander's heart is hammering in his chest, god, a fucking war hammer, a drumbeat like nothing he's heard or felt before and—

—in a swift and sudden movement, they move together. Alexander kisses Laurens hot and fast, and Laurens kisses back; he tastes like weed and underneath it liquor. The hard bitterness of vodka, Jacks. They are both drunk, they are both a little high. Alexander's fingers tighten in the material of Laurens' t-shirt. 

"Alex," Laurens says, against Alexander's lips. He pulls away, then, and for a horrifying moment Alexander thinks that this is over; then Laurens' mouth is on his neck, sucking, and Alexander goes weak at the knees.

"I—I want," he says. The words come out high-pitched. Then they're next to Laurens' bed, and Alexander's hands are everywhere, and then they're lying down and Alexander is half on top of Laurens and he's already hard. They kiss again, with more fervor, something that borders on desperation. Alexander grinds down against Laurens and Laurens moans. It's a low, almost ragged sound. Alexander's heart beats a wild dance-hall rhythm in his chest, his stomach, his groin. 

He wants to pull his clothes off, tell Laurens to undress. He wants to see Laurens in the dark, in the light, all of him. He wants to do wild, shameful things in the thin blueish light of this dorm room. 

He doesn't. 

Well, he kind of does. 

"Fuck," Laurens grits out when Alexander's hips jerk against his own. One of his hands is tangled in Alexander's hair, the other on the small of his back. The feeling of Laurens' palm there grounds Alexander. "Can I...?"

He's pulling at the hem of Alexander's shirt. Alexander sits up, willingly, enough to help Laurens yank the shirt over his head. He's hot—god, he's hot, feels the heat pressing against his skin—and feels pure electricity in the places where he and Laurens touch. And Laurens' hand is sliding between them, is on the zipper of Alexander's jeans, touching the place where his cock presses hard against the denim. Alexander moans open-mouthed against Laurens' neck, his hips jerking forward. 

"Alex," Laurens says, and his voice is low and breathless. It strikes Alexander that this is ridiculous, the sound of their hard breathing and the shifting of skin on skin and denim on denim in the otherwise silent room; he thinks that they will regret this in the morning for very different reasons. 

It doesn't stop him. If the same thought has occurred to Laurens, it doesn't stop him either. 

"What?" Alexander leans on his forearms, rubber band somewhere in Laurens' bed and his tangled hair falling down over his face. "What do you need?" 

Laurens arches his back, pushing his hard-on up against Alexander. His eyes are dark with alcohol and what Alexander quickly identifies as lust. He'd thought that was just something that people said, something written in the cheesy romance novels that Eduardo hawked down at the corner store. 

"I think," Laurens says, "You know."

And,  _fuck_ , does Alexander know. He jerks Laurens' zipper down, feels Laurens do the same to him. There's wetness on the front of Laurens' tight briefs, in the same place where his cock curves out in a hard ridge; Alexander realizes that it's precum just as Laurens shoves a hand down his pants, inside his underwear. Alexander hasn't felt anything like this in years, this electric shock against his skin. He feels himself shudder, tense despite his drunkenness. He moans  _fuck, fuck_ against Laurens' mouth. 

Then Laurens' hand is moving, sliding up and down the length of Alexander's cock and he rubs his thumb over the tip; Alexander's whole body jerks because  _fuck_ , that's good. He thrusts up into Laurens' hand, simultaneously working Laurens' zipper down. He barely has Laurens' cock in his hand—and fuck, it's thick, that's  _hot_ —when Laurens does something obscene with his hand and Alexander is pushed right up to the edge. He leans down and kisses Laurens again, fast and hard, exhaling in a shuddering whimper as he comes. 

"Fuck, Jack, fuck, that was—here, let me..." he spits in his hand, jerks Laurens off and feels like what he's doing isn't hot, is awkward and weird. Laurens' eyes fall half-closed and he moans again, a low and desperate sound, right hand tightening in Alexander's hair as he comes all over his stomach and t-shirt. 

There's a long moment of heavy breathing, and then Laurens gets up and says that they'd better clean themselves up. They both undress in the dark, stripping down to their underwear, and climb back into Laurens' bed. Everything feels slow and hazy and warm to Alexander. He puts his head on Laurens' chest. 

"You know, you..." Laurens begins, then trails off. 

"What?" Alexander mutters, but Laurens is already asleep. Alexander closes his eyes and in the moment before sleep washes over him, he thinks that yeah, they might regret this later but right now he feels so damn satisfied.

*******

Alexander wakes up in the early morning, grayish light coming in through the window. He's lying next to Laurens, and their legs are tangled together under the blanket. He knows that if he stays awake any longer a hangover will come rushing in, so he lets himself fall back asleep. 

When he wakes up again, it's almost noon and the other side of the bed is cold and empty. 

*******

He's pulling his jeans on when Laurens comes back into the room. 

"Hey," Alexander says. Laurens looks exhausted and hungover, his hair pulled into a messy ponytail. 

"Hey." 

There's something weird and tense in Laurens' voice. Alexander thinks,  _fuck._

"Jack," he begins, knowing that he shouldn't say anything, that he shouldn't bring it up, that ignoring it for at least a day is the only way that this will ever not be totally awkward. But Alexander isn't good at not saying anything, and he's not good at ignoring the blatantly obvious. "Last night—"

"Can we just—not?" Laurens says tersely, bending down to pick up his jeans and t-shirt. He's wearing sweatpants and a clean shirt; he looks like he's just been in the shower. When he straightens up, there is something almost scared in Laurens' expression. It's what he doesn't say, what he won't say, that belies everything. 

Alexander says, "Uh". 

"We were both really drunk, Alex." Laurens is very carefully not meeting Alexander's gaze. He holds himself rigid, like any movement would betray what he's really thinking. Alexander's stomach clenches. 

"Yeah." He wraps his dirty jeans up inside his sweatshirt, tugs on his sneakers and jacket. His mouth tastes sour, and he can feel a headache starting. "Yeah, I'll...yeah."

"See you around," Laurens says tightly when Alexander is standing in the doorway. "Tomorrow?"

"Sure. Yeah. See you." Alexander doesn't look back, keeps a straight face until he's on the walkway outside Laurens' dorm. Then he half-jogs back to his room, throws himself onto his unmade bed, and lets himself feel enough regret for the entire goddamn city of New York. 

*******

Laurens texts him the next afternoon, and they take the subway downtown together. Alexander thinks that it will be awkward, that even being around Laurens will be horribly tense and weird.

It's not.

They don't talk about what happened, but when they're taking the subway home later in the evening and their hands brush and linger on the plastic seats, Laurens doesn't move and doesn't say anything.

It's like nothing ever happened between them, Alexander thinks grimly. 

He's not surprised, but he didn't think that it would sting like this. Like putting a new cut under hot water.

*******

The break is over quickly. On Sunday night, Laurens shows up at Alexander's door with a bottle of cheap vodka. 

"This tastes like," Alexander coughs, resisting the urge to spit the liquor out like cough syrup. "Fucking gasoline. Or some shit."

All Laurens says is, "It does the fuckin' job, man". Alexander doesn't read too deeply into that. 

An hour later they're sitting cross-legged on the carpet, drunk enough to be physical and laugh easily and not think too seriously about the implications of how or where they touch. Laurens' hand is on Alexander's knee, suddenly. The air in the room feels thick. Alexander wishes that he were drunker, or less drunk, or not drunk at all. 

Laurens is touching his thigh, sliding his hand upward. Alexander is wearing tight jeans and Laurens is leaning forward until both hands are on Alexander's thighs, sliding upwards, and then his mouth is on Alexander's. Alexander thinks,  _shit_. Then he kisses Laurens back, because what else is he supposed to do? He leans into it, opens his mouth. He used to think that kissing with tongue was gross, he used to think that kissing boys was gross, he used to think...

"Fuck," Laurens murmurs when he pulls away. 

"Uh," Alexander says. He could say a lot more, if he wasn't drunk and nervous. 

"Do you want this?" Laurens asks, and Alexander doesn't say no. He nods. His  _yes_ is muttered against Laurens' mouth. Then they're both shirtless, and when Laurens leans down and bites one of Alexander's nipples Alexander's back arches and he actually cries out. Under different circumstances, it might have been embarrassing. But, like, Alexander hadn't even known that he's  _into_ that. He can feel himself getting hard, is certain that Laurens is experiencing the same thing. Everything after that is a blur of hands shoved down the front of Alexander's pants and his own hand on Laurens' waistband and afterwards, when Laurens has left, the cold emptiness of the dorm room.

He takes a shower and lies on the floor on his back, staring at the ceiling, hating the silence.

*******

"How was your break?" Mulligan throws his duffel bag down on his bed, kicks off his shoes. Alexander flips through a Poli Sci periodical from the library, not really reading. 

"It was good, really quiet." He can hear how forced the casual tone in his voice sounds.

"Yeah? What'd you do?" Mulligan starts unpacking, tossing dirty clothes into his laundry bag.

_Laurens, for one_ , Alexander thinks. He swallows. "Uh, hung around campus a lot. Went downtown a few times."

"Hey, sounds like a good time." Mulligan holds up a t-shirt, sniffs it hesitantly, and recoils. Alexander laughs aloud.

"How was seeing your family, man?"

Mulligan pauses for a second. "Oh, you know." He shrugs. "Mom and dad, we're all really close. Extended family, not so much. Sometimes my grandparents can get real weird about certain stuff."

"Like..."

"Uh, just. They're pretty old-fashioned, I guess." Mulligan looks down and away. "Different generation, you know." 

Alexander, who has never met his grandparents, doesn't know. But something in Mulligan's voice suggests discomfort, so he doesn't press the subject. They end up doing laundry together in the dorm's basement, in a comfortable silence. After a while, Mulligan says,

"See Laurens a lot?"

Alexander's stomach tightens a little, but he just smiles and says, "Yeah, yeah. Hung out a few times." 

 Mulligan says, "that's awesome" and they go back to doing their laundry in the warm quiet. Alexander thinks about Laurens' mouth moving against his and feels suddenly like he's drowning, like there's nothing he needs more than air. 

*******

Apparently, Laurens is a member of the If We Don't Talk About It Nothing Happened Between Us party. 

As soon as classes start, Laurens is suddenly extremely busy—with essays, studying for his last two midterms, applying to be a Spanish tutor for the Foreign Language department. Mulligan and Lafayette keep mentioning that they never see Laurens anymore; Alexander stays quiet about it.

"We've seen him, like, twice this  _week_." Mulligan says, staring through the dining hall windows like invoking the name might make Laurens appear outside. 

"Remember when Laurens was part of the squad?" Lafayette jokes. Alexander stares into his pasta and says nothing. What is he supposed to say, anyways? That he knows why Laurens is suddenly distant, acting weird, avoiding him? That they'd drunkenly jerked each other off and that although Laurens is hellbent on acting like nothing had happened, something had one hundred percent most  _definitely_ happened. 

Then, in early December, he's back and it's like nothing ever happened. 

"I got the job!" Laurens says at dinner one night. It's only five o'clock, but beyond the dining hall windows the sky is pitch black. "As a Spanish tutor. I'm starting next week."

There are cries of "awesome!" and "yeah, bro!" from Mulligan and Lafayette. Alexander says something along those lines—that's great, that's so awesome, proud of you, man. He thinks that Laurens doesn't look him in the eye the way he used to.

*******

 

_They are almost eighteen, Edward and Alexander. They both know what's coming for Alexander—the payoff at the end of sleepless nights spent writing application essays and applying for scholarships. Edward, less motivated, disdainful of higher education, rolls his eyes at the mentions of college. Alexander hopes, and he waits._

_They've barely touched—not_ like that _, at least—in over a year. Alexander hasn't touched_ anyone  _like that in a long time, not since he'd hooked up with a friend-of-a-friend after a party at the beach. She was pretty, knew how to use her body in a way that had nearly made Alexander come in his pants, but they hadn't talked afterwards and Alexander doesn't even remember her name._

_In the spring, he's accepted to five colleges. By early summer, he's committed to King's College. He has a full ride from a community scholarship, money from wealthy local patrons. The night that Alexander sends his letter of commitment to King's College, Edward comes home drunk. Alexander can hear him cursing upstairs. He thinks about New York City, about a future._

_He hopes, and he waits._

*******

Alexander and Laurens walk back from the library together one night, the first time that they have been alone together since Thanksgiving Break. Laurens walks quickly, his hands in his pockets, staring at the sidewalk. It's late afternoon, thin sheets of rain falling. It'll snow soon, Mulligan says. Alexander, who has never seen snow, trusts Mulligan's opinion. 

Silence, and silence, and silence, and finally Alexander can't take it any longer—because he's never been good at shutting his mouth—and he says,

"Dude, are you straight?"

Laurens stops. Completely. Then he keeps walking, jaw set. "No."

Alexander's chest does a weird swooping thing. "I just. I was. Wondering, because..."

"I know why you were wondering," Laurens says shortly; then his voice gets quieter, more gentle. "I know, Alex. I'm not straight, no. And I've known that for a long time, this isn't some..." he makes an airy gesture with his right hand, "new thing that I'm just now finding out." 

Alexander is silent. 

"I'm not gay, either," Laurens says. He sounds sad and maybe a little disappointed, or angry; Alexander can't tell which. 

"I'm not..." 

"It's alright." Laurens adds. "There's just. A lot of stuff that I need to figure out. You know?"

Alexander feels unadulterated misery, frustration, resentment.

"Yeah," he says, not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice. "I know."

*******

_Alexander is in the living room, packing. A duffel bag and his backpack—that's all he needs. The windows are open, cool breeze lifting the curtains. He's putting books—his mother's books, his family's books, all that he has left of her and them and his past—into his duffel bag when Edward comes in. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, hair slicked back. He's gotten taller, Alexander thinks. He wonders why, how, he didn't notice._

_"You're leaving so soon, Alex," Edward says. "College boy, now."_

_Alexander laughs. "Guess so."_

_Edward comes closer, until he's standing only a pace or two away from Alexander. There is something unreadable in his face, his eyes._

_"What are you...?" Alexander says, out loud. Edward steps closer. They are inches apart, now, and the air in the room is thick. Alexander swallows._

_"What do you feel for me, Alex?" Edward asks. His voice is low, rough. Alexander thinks fervently about those nights in the attic, about the first time someone else had_ really  _touched him, about how desperately he'd wanted it and at the same time hated it. Edward leans in, kisses Alexander._

_Alexander kisses back._

_He hates that he does. He doesn't hate that he does. He doesn't know._

_Edward steps back, rubbing the back of his palm across his mouth. His gaze is hard._

_"I had to know for sure," he says. Alexander's chest tightens._

_"Know what?"_

_Edward is striding towards the doorway. "That you're a queer. I guessed, but I didn't know for sure until now."_

_Alexander wants to punch him. He wants to fuck him. He wants to punch him. He wants—_

_Edward doesn't look back. A week later, leaving the islands for the first time in his life, neither does Alexander._

_*******_

It's a weekend night, mid-December, and the weather's been threatening snow all week. Mulligan keeps saying that "a storm is coming" in an ominous, prophetic voice. Alexander senses another disturbance on the horizon, involving himself and Laurens and a whole lot of weirdness.

Alexander is  _not_ good at forgetting about things, and he's  _not_ good at letting things go unsaid. He's even worse at repressing emotions. 

"Have you ever hooked up with a friend?" he asks Lafayette, because  _of course_ he's going to ask Lafayette. 

"Once," Lafayette says. Then, "No. Twice. Yeah, two times." 

Already, Alexander's sensing that this story doesn't have a particularly satisfying ending. Maybe the middle of a café wasn't the best place for this conversation, but Alexander can't keep skirting around this any longer. 

"What...happened?"

"The first guy told me that he was straight. The second guy told me that he wasn't." 

Alexander stares. Lafayette dumps a horrifying amount of sugar into his coffee, enough for at least three cups. 

"It's not important," he says, finally. "Neither time worked out, is what I'm getting at,  _ami_. Anyways, why're you asking? This happening with you?"

Alexander's silence is telling, because Lafayette laughs quietly. He puts the sugar down. 

"Anyone I know?"

"No," Alexander says smoothly, effortlessly. "Actually, it was a situation from back home. Something that's kind of come up recently, been thinking about it a lot. You know, it's just complicated. Relationships, friendships. All that shit."

"Uh-huh," Lafayette mutters, looking unconvinced. They stare at each other across the table, Lafayette's gaze suddenly discerning. "Alexander, I think that you're not telling me everything about this situation."

Maybe it's the lilting French accent, but Alexander finds himself on the verge of telling Lafayette everything: what had happened after they left Lafayette's dorm, what happened during the vacation, all of it. 

He says,

"I'm queer." 

Self-incrimination is as much a part of Alexander as talking too much and loving spirited debates. 

Lafayette laughs. "I know." 

"What?" Alexander coughs, almost spits coffee out on the table and Lafayette's shirt. "What do you mean  _I know_?"

"Why do you think that I've only come out to you?"

 Alexander says, "Um".

"You pass as straight, if that makes any difference." Lafayette adds, a little grimly. "We both do. Not exactly the white hipster stereotype of queerness, are we?"

Alexander shakes his head. "No, man." 

"Look." Lafayette says, suddenly serious. "Whoever this is, whoever this boy—or girl, or person—is, I hope that you can reach agreement with them. You know? Heart to heart. I know that's some sappy bullshit, but. You know." 

"Yeah." Alexander is thinking  _how did you know that I'm queer?_ but he doesn't say that. "I know."

Lafayette drinks some of his disgustingly sweet coffee. "I'll tell them eventually. The other guys. I owe them that."

Alexander presses his lips together, trying not to look too cynical. "Yeah."

"Honesty, Alexander. Not that it's any of their business, but I think that talking openly about sexuality can be really good. Especially for guys,  _tu sais_?"

Alexander thinks about Laurens, about how Laurens would—will—react to two of his closest friends coming out to him. The thought is unduly disturbing and stressful. Later, studying in the room with Mulligan, Alexander comes close to saying something. Coming out, because he thinks—knows—that Mulligan will understand. He thinks about Edward. He thinks about Laurens. He doesn't say anything.

*******

When Alexander comes to Washington with questions about the internship, Washington looks tired and tells him to ask Aaron Burr. 

"Alexander, listen. This is something that I would love to help you with, but it's a very busy time of the semester and I can't give this my full attention at the moment. I would suggest talking to Aaron Burr." Washington glances at the sheafs of ungraded papers on his desk. "If I'm being frank with you, the department needs a lot of help and he's a very good candidate."

"Well, if  _I'm_ being frank with you, Aaron Burr and I don't get along very well." Alexander thinks that this is maybe crossing a line. Washington looks a little taken aback, but he doesn't say anything. Just sighs. 

"Alexander, please."

"Professor," he says, tries very hard not to let the anxiety show in the pitch of his voice. "Aaron Burr and I are very much, um, dissimilar. I think that he finds me abrasive and a loudmouth, if I'm being real with you."

Washington pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Alexander opens his mouth to say something else, but Washington's stern glance makes him fall silent. Alexander thinks that maybe "being real" with Washington is something that he should do a little less often. 

*******

If he can't make Aaron Burr like his personality (and, yeah, debating is  _totally_ part of Alexander's personality), he can at least make nice. His mother had taught him as much; make nice with James, make nice with the bullies at school, make nice with the idea of your father....

It's an art. The art of the suck-up. Alexander is well-versed. 

"Aaron!" He breaks into a jog when he sees Aaron Burr on the crowded quad between classes. He's walking alone, turns when he hears Alexander. Even from a distance of fifteen feet, Alexander sees Burr's shoulders slump as he rolls his eyes.

"Mister Hamilton," Burr says. He straightens his shoulders. Alexander wonders if he picked the whole  _mister_ thing up from Washington. Probably. "What is it?"

"I just saw you and figured I'd say hey!" Alexander smiles broadly. It isn't hard; he doesn't, like,  _hate_ Burr. Doesn't even strongly dislike him. He wants to impress him, sure, and he's pretty damn jealous of Burr's position as TA and Washington's buddy—but Alexander's not inclined to hatred without knowing people really well. 

"Hey," Burr says, almost sarcastically. 

"So, how're things going with," Alexander wracks his brain for a second, trying to think of her name. "Your girlfriend—uh, Theo? Theodosia! She  _is_ your girlfri—"

Burr cries, "No! Shut up!" with sudden vigor, grabbing Alexander's right upper arm hard. "She's  _not_ my girlfriend!"

"Shit, sorry." Alexander winces. Burr's grip is as firm as his handshakes. "I saw you, like, kissing her and stuff, so I figured..."

"Theodosia is  _not_ my girlfriend!" Burr says loudly, raising his voice and looking around as if addressing any passerby who might have overheard them. Then, seeing Alexander's skeptical look, he releases his arm and lowers his voice. "She already has a boyfriend."

"Oh. Shit." Alexander arches his eyebrows. 

"He's been studying abroad in England for the past three months," Burr adds grimly. 

Alexander says, "And?"

" _And_ ," Burr glances around again, looking hunted. "He just got back early."

Alexander says, "Oh,  _shit_."

*******

Alexander needs to talk to Laurens. He can't  _not_ anymore. It's become an actual physical urge, one that he can barely suppress. One night he actually  _dreams_ about having a long conversation with Laurens. The ending is, admittedly, really ideal and very unrealistic. Then, a few weeks before the holiday break, he sees Laurens walking alone and Alexander can't stay quiet anymore. 

He's walking to the library, and Laurens is walking back from the library, and they're striding towards each other on a walkway across the middle of campus. And Alexander thinks  _I have to say something_ and his infamous inability to shut the hell up kicks in, and before he can stop himself he's calling,

"Yo, John!"

Laurens slows down a little. When he's close enough, Alexander grabs Laurens' arm. 

"We need to talk."

Laurens balks. "Uh." 

"I can't just shut up and avoid this in silence, man. Maybe that works for you but it doesn't work for me. Talking about shit is how I, like, work through it, how I figure it out, and I gotta figure this out.  _We_ gotta figure this out." 

Laurens swallows visibly. "Alexander..."

"No, don't  _Alexander_ me!" He can hear the high, nervous edge in his voice. It's late afternoon, bitterly cold. Alexander is miserable, freezing, shivering a little bit with frustration and cold. "Why don't you look at me the same anymore? Why do you, like, go out of your way to avoid being alone with me? Because I know this is because of what happened, okay?" 

"Okay—okay." Laurens glances around, like he's afraid of someone overhearing them. 

Alexander says, "Are you ashamed of what happened?"

Laurens is silent. Alexander's chest feels tight; he's almost dizzy with regret and embarrassment. The voice in his head that has lately sounded suspiciously like Edward is already berating him. _Why did you think that he wouldn't consider this a random, drunken hookup? Why don't_ you  _consider this a random, drunken hookup? Why do you—_

"I'm not ashamed, Alexander." Laurens' voice is careful, measured. "I regret that we were both drunk. It felt like a mistake that we just—it felt like we were only doing it because we were alone, or lonely, and drunk, or whatever." 

"I wasn't just lonely!" Alexander's voice hitches. "John, we were alone and we were drunk but I didn't do it because of that. I wouldn't play you like that, I'm not—"

"Then why do I feel like we're both avoiding saying..." Laurens trails off, making a vague gesture with his right hand. Alexander laughs, an almost manic sound.

 "What?" Alexander's breathing hard. "That I'm into you, John? Because that's the truth, okay? I am." And,  _shit_ , he just said it. Out loud, like he's said a hundred times in his head and in the shower and into his pillow at night. "I  _like_ you, man, I've got feelings for you. There's no other way around it so I might as well just come out and fuckin' say it straight up." 

Unease flashes across Laurens' face. The only thing that Alexander can think is that their friendship is over. There's no way that Laurens could  _possibly_ be cool with being friends; not after this. In the distance, a dog barks and then howls. 

"Okay, I said it." Alexander puts his hands up, a position that's almost defensive. "And I'm sorry if this is fucking things up, and I'm sorry if that's not what you want to hear, John. I'm sorry if you're freaked out because—"

"Because what?" Laurens' voice rises in pitch and volume. He sounds almost incredulous. "Because I'm into you, too? 'Cause I  _am_ , Alex, or were you too busy ranting to figure that out?" 

There's a moment of shocked silence. For the first time in months—in, admittedly, a  _very long time_ —Alexander doesn't have a comeback.

When he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse and jittery. "So are we...?"

"Yes, Alex,  _God_." Laurens steps closer, his hands stuttering over Alexander's. Neither of them are wearing gloves; Alexander's fingers feel slow as he reaches up and holds onto Laurens' jacket collar. "Yes, we're doing this."

"Good." Sweet, warm relief and something that Alexander can only categorize as disbelief flood him. He's freezing but the cold is suddenly barely noticeable. "I was so..."

"I know," Laurens says, quietly. Alexander has to stand on his toes just a little to kiss him, their skin cold. He laughs into the kiss and feels Laurens' mouth curve into a smile. Laurens hand is in Alexander's hair, their bodies pressed against each other. Nothing else matters, Alexander thinks.

Above their heads, snow starts to fall. 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

* * *

_Mid-winter. The wind coming off the bay is cool, smells thickly like salt. Alexander and James walk home from school together, stop to stand on the hilltop near Peter's apartment and the now-closed grocery store. James, squinting through the sunlight, points to dark clouds over the ocean and predicts a storm._

_"It's not hurricane season," Alexander says, like that makes a difference. James, older and wiser, gives him a grim look._

_"Storms will come whether we think it or not, Alex."_

_They walk home in silence. It's Alexander who hears the scream first, and then James, and James grabs his wrist tightly and says_ stay here  _and later Alexander will be embarrassed about that, because he's fourteen and not a_ kid _, and then Ledja is running down the stairs—_

_"Boys, boys, come here, help, James—" She is wearing jeans and a shirt that Peter always calls slutty and when they get closer she grabs James' shoulder hard. When her hand comes away there's blood on his t-shirt._

_"The fuck happened?" James says, and Ledja is crying, hard, she's saying_ your cousin it's your cousin it's Peter  _and Alexander is so scared and he and james are running upstairs, running into the apartment, and Peter's bedroom door is open, and James says_ wait here  _to Alexander but Alexander isn't a kid anymore and he's old enough to see whatever James is about to see and—_

_Peter is lying on his bed and there's blood everywhere there's so much blood everywhere and Alexander doesn't see where it's coming from but God there's so much fucking_ blood  _and Peter is dead he knows he's dead he knows—_

* * *

Alexander wakes up breathless, a scream on his lips.

"What the hell?" Mulligan says thickly from across the room, shoving back his blanket. When he sees Alexander sitting bolt upright in bed, staring at the wall, he reaches over and turns on his desk light. "Dude, you okay?"

Alexander shakes his head silently.

"What's wrong?" Mulligan starts to stand up. Alexander forces himself to snap out of it, resists the urge to slap himself in the face.

"I'm fine." His voice sounds shaky. "Nightmare, that's all."

"Uh."

"It's fine." Alexander reaches up to scrub his hands over his face. "I have this reoccurring dream, is all." 

Mulligan lies back down, still looking at Alexander. "Want to talk about it?" 

"Not really. No offense."

"None taken."

Silence. Mulligan leans over to turn the light off.

"He was my cousin," Alexander says. Mulligan pauses. Leans back, leaving the light on. "Peter. My brother and I went to live with him after—uh, after. And one day we came home and he'd killed himself." Alexander's voice catches.

"Shit," Mulligan says. "I'm sorry, Alexander."

"We found his body, me and James." Alexander swipes at his eyes surreptitiously. If Mulligan sees, he doesn't say anything. "There was so much blood. I've never seen..."

"I'm sorry," Mulligan says, again. 

"It's fine." 

"It's not fine." Mulligan's voice is quiet. He turns off the light. 

Alexander thinks about all that blood, Peter's blood, on the bed, on the floor, on Ledja's hands, and realizes that he's shaking.

Suddenly, Mulligan says, "My cousin killed himself, too." 

"I'm sorry," Alexander murmurs. 

"He was sixteen."

Alexander sighs heavily. "Fuck."

"If you ever want to talk. You know." The  _I understand_ is implied.

"Thanks, Herc," Alexander says, and his voice is quiet and steady. 

* * *

Whatever is happened between Alexander and Laurens isn't definitive. Alexander likes that, likes the vagueness of not putting a name to anything, of avoiding labels because the thought of commitment right now is more than unnerving. They've barely done anything but kiss each other, anyways, and now that classes have started again and Laurens is working long hours for the Foreign Language department, there's barely time to see each other.

"We should keep this on the down-low, probably," Alexander says conversationally one day. They're walking back from the academic side of campus together, misty rain falling. It hasn't snowed in a few days, but the weekend weather report predicts a storm. "You know, for now."

"Yeah, of course," Laurens says, but Alexander thinks that he sounds relieved.

* * *

 

"Do you think that Hercules is straight?" Lafayette asks Alexander.

Alexander has no idea. When he says as much, Lafayette looks pensive.

"Why?"

Lafayette lifts one shoulder in a shrug, his gaze far away. "No reason."

* * *

Washington calls Alexander to his office after class. 

"Is something wrong, professor?" Alexander sits in the ladder-backed chair, glancing around Washington's tidy desk. The sheafs of ungraded essays are gone.

"Hardly, Alexander." Washington leans back in his chair, looking Alexander in the face. His eyes are friendly and warm, and they make Alexander less nervous. He wonders how Washington got so comfortable with maintaining eye contact for so long. "I wondered how your first semester is going. Your grades certainly suggest dedication to all of your classes."

"I like what I'm taking," Alexander says.

"Very high marks on your midterms," Washington comments, like it's no big deal. "You'll have no trouble maintaining any merit-based financial aid next semester, but I'm sure that you know that."

"I don't..." Alexander pauses. He doesn't like going into detail about his scholarship situation, hasn't talked about it with anyone so far. "I'm here on a full ride from, uh, patrons."

"Patrons?"

"Local, um, businessmen." And, shit, he shouldn't have even brought this  _up_ to Washington; Washington, who already knows that Alexander is a first-generation college student, who knows that in his application essays Alexander avoided using any kind of language that would paint him as poor or disadvantaged despite glaring evidence that he is, Washington who has  _read the essay that practically got Alexander to King's College_. "It was kind of, like..." 

Washington is silent. 

"It feels like a charity thing, sometimes." The words come out in a rush and Alexander is horrified.

"It isn't charity, Alexander." Washington's voice is quiet and warm. "People see your potential and they want to support you. For a community to help you get here—that isn't charity. That's belief, Alexander." 

Alexander says, "Yeah" but it sounds like a lie from his own mouth. Suddenly, Washington's prolonged eye contact and wholehearted belief in Alexander feels overwhelming. 

"Um, I have a meeting," he says uneasily, certain that Washington knows that he's lying. If Washington does, he doesn't let on. 

When Alexander's at his office doorway, Washington suddenly says,

"Alexander, you're planning to declare a major in political science, correct?"

"Yes," Alexander says. "Why?"

Washington shakes his head. "Just keeping an eye out for the future of the department," he says, but as Alexander leaves he sees Washington look down at his desk and smile. 

* * *

Final exams are coming up quickly, and Alexander spends more time in the library than he does in the room. One evening he's walking back to the dorms early, headed down the stairs in front of the building, when someone calls his name. 

"Alexander!"

He turns; it's Eliza Schuyler, wearing a red woolen jacket and scarf. She waves, is smiling brightly. 

"Hey," Alexander says, pausing until she catches up. "How's it going?"

Eliza hesitates for a second too long before saying, "Fine, everything's good."

"That didn't sound sincere." 

"It's." She pauses again, like she's debating whether or not to speak her mind. "Do you ever realize the  _weight_ of everyone's expectations?"

Alexander laughs, short and bitter. "Only, like, every day."

"This is my first time being away from home for so long, my first time...I dunno, it's like. Angelica is a junior, she's had so long to impress everyone and make a name for herself, and she impresses  _everyone_ , you know that, you've met her." There's no jealousy in Eliza's voice, only a kind of bittersweet sadness. "I thought that college was supposed to be as easy for everyone as it is for her. I was wrong."

"No, it's hard." Alexander resists the urge to touch her shoulder. A gesture of camaraderie, of course. "It's hard, Eliza. Everyone's working their ass off and half of us are still doing kind of badly."

"You're not, though." Eliza's dark eyes are clear and bright; they look right through Alexander. "Don't lie to me, Alexander, I know that you're doing well."

"Yeah," he says, quietly, but it feels like another lie. 

"Sometimes I just feel—"

"Eliza..."

"-stupid."

"You're  _not_ stupid." 

Silence. "I know."

"That didn't sound sincere," Alexander says again, quietly. 

"I don't think that I'm stupid, Alexander." Eliza's voice is stern but gentle. "I just don't know how to explain what I'm feeling."

There is a kind of quiet tenacity in Eliza's voice that strikes a chord in Alexander, full and deep. He wonders, again, what growing up with Angelica must have been like.

"Where are you from?" Alexander thinks that Eliza is the kind of girl who could have come from anywhere—a mountain town in Colorado, Los Angeles, the rainy streets of Seattle, gritty Brooklyn. 

"Upstate," she says, smiling a little. "Albany."

"What's it like?"

"Cold, mostly." Eliza laughs and Alexander's chest does that funny swooping thing. "No, I mean, it's beautiful. We live in, like, the epitome of suburbia, but that's okay. It's kind of nice, actually." She pauses. "My dad works in local government, so."

"Damn," Alexander says, and wishes that he couldn't hear the tinge of wanting in his own voice. "And you don't want to study political science?"

"I don't want to be my father," Eliza replies shortly. Then her voice gets quieter. "That's Angelica's field, anyways."

"Sorry. I didn't mean—you shouldn't have to be like your dad. Not that he's not cool, I'm sure he's awesome." Alexander's blushing a little in the darkness, despite the frigid air. "I mean, he has an awesome daughter, so."

Eliza laughs again, the sound high and pure.  _God, she's beautiful_ , Alexander thinks out of nowhere. Then he feels weird and tense, because  _John_ , but he thinks about the hurried relief in Laurens' voice when they'd talked about whatever the  _hell_ was going on between them and—

—Eliza is stopping in front of her dorm, taking out her lanyard. Alexander, suddenly only a pace away, is struck by the urge to reach out and brush a lock of dark hair away from her face. 

"Well, I'll see you around, Alexander."

"Uh, yeah." Why does he feel breathless? They'll see each other around campus, in the dining hall, he's in a class with Angelica...

Eliza turns to swipe her key card.

"Eliza," Alexander says. She looks back. "Why did your sister introduce us?"

She ducks her head. "Oh, Angelica's always trying to set me up with people. She probably thinks you're cute and witty and a nice boy from a good family." 

Alexander swallows.

"She's right," Eliza says, swiping her card and hurrying into the dorm with a quick wave. Alexander stands on the sidewalk outside and forgets how to breathe like a normal human being for about five straight minutes.

* * *

_A nice boy from a good family_ , he thinks later, in the shower. 

All that he can see is James on some anonymous Caribbean street corner, pushing drugs, fucking around; Edward getting mixed up in dubious dealings like he always does; Peter, dead in the bedroom. 

Alexander laughs aloud, the sound totally humorless.

* * *

Lafayette comes out to Laurens and Mulligan the week before finals. Mulligan gets emotional and hugs Lafayette tightly, saying something about trust and love. Laurens says that he's glad that they're all honest with each other, that he would love Lafayette no matter what, no matter anything.

He and Alexander give each other swift, secret looks. 

* * *

 

"Is Laurens straight?" Lafayette asks. 

"I don't know, I've never asked him." Alexander hears the lie in his voice.  

Lafayette gives him a weird, lingering look. He doesn't say anything else. 

* * *

 

Alexander has been awake for almost forty hours straight by the time he knocks on Laurens' door. Laurens answers wearing boxers and nothing else; Alexander's heart jumps into his throat.

An hour later he's shirtless, sitting up on Laurens' knees. Alexander feels desperate and shaky, and it's not just arousal, it's a lack of sleep and stress and drinking too much coffee and writing, writing, writing. He needs distraction, yearns for it. 

"I want to suck your dick," he says, and feels embarrassed. Alexander doesn't  _feel_ sexy, not in this situation—his hair in a messy ponytail, dark circles underneath his eyes. Wearing the same jeans and t-shirt three days in a row. 

"Fuck." Laurens sits up on his elbows. "Uh, yeah, okay." 

Alexander presses his hand down against the bulge in Laurens' boxers, watches Laurens writhe up against him. It strikes him that he's never actually  _done_ this before, only seen it in porn and trashy romance novels. Sucking dick seems easy enough—girls and guys in porn always make it look that way, at least; Alexander's pretty sure that he has a least a vague idea of where to start. He pulls Laurens' boxers down, enough so that he can pull Laurens' dick out; it's rock hard against Laurens' stomach, and Alexander feels a warm flash of want. He leans down, kisses Laurens hard on the mouth. Then the neck, then the stomach, okay, this isn't so hard; he leans down more and licks the tip of Laurens' dick and—

—Alexander hadn't actually considered that dick might taste, like, pretty weird. He almost coughs—because  _damn_ this is what girls in high school were always talking about, laughing like it was an inside joke—but as soon as Alexander's mouth is on him Laurens lets out a high-pitched gasp and that's enough distraction. Alexander gets his mouth around Laurens' dick, thinks that John's packing a pretty sizable cock, that jerking each other off hadn't given him a good enough idea of how big it actually is. 

He almost chokes a little, kind of coughs around Laurens' dick, and Laurens moans loudly and tangles his fingers in Alexander's hair. He only pushes down a little, not hard, but Alexander tries to swallow down as much of Laurens' cock as he can. And, yeah, now he knows why his girl friends always complain about sucking dick and  _fuck, porn is so unrealistic_. Alexander gets maybe halfway down, feels his gag reflex triggered. 

He swallows unbidden, and when he does Laurens arches his back up off the bed and makes a desperate sound. Alexander does it again, goes down farther, loves it when Laurens moans again. And again. He puts his hand around the base of Laurens' cock, jerks up and down like he's seen in porn. Laurens mutters,

"Fuck, Alex." 

His hands are tight in Alexander's hair, hips stuttering like he's trying not to thrust up into Alexander's mouth too hard. Alexander jerks faster, a bitter taste in his mouth that he thinks is probably precum. The thought is pretty arousing; Alexander, hard and aching, unzips his jeans with his right hand. He gets a hand around his cock, starts jerking himself off. 

"Alex," Laurens says, and his voice sounds hoarse. "You're so good, Alex."

Maybe it's the way he says it—quietly, almost gentle—or the hand on Alexander's head, but he doesn't feel dirty or slutty. He thought that he would, in a way; the same way that he'd felt dirty after touching Edward. Drunk, it's one thing, easy to excuse. Sober sex is different, infinitely better.

Laurens says, "I'm gonna come" suddenly, and before Alexander can pull his mouth away he comes hard. Alexander coughs reflexively, the feeling of come in his mouth sudden and totally weird. Okay, a few times he's been horny enough to suck on his own fingers after he's come and  _that's_ weird enough, has always felt ridiculous and kind of gross afterwards. Alexander doesn't really know what to do, but guys in porn always swallow so that's what he does. 

"Huh." He sits up a little. "That's kind of weird."

Laurens puts his head back, breathless. "You ever sucked dick before, Alex?"

"Uh." Alexander doesn't see the point in lying. "No, actually. That was. I don't know."

"I couldn't tell," Laurens says, in a voice that's almost encouraging, and Alexander laughs because the situation seems weirdly hilarious. "You're really. Fuck. You've got a talented mouth, Alex."

Normally, Alexander would laugh, but he's also really turned on. Laurens jerks him off, and Alexander lets his eyes fall closed. He tries to think about John, but he ends up thinking about the Caribbean. 

* * *

 

"You're staying here during the break, right?" Alexander dumps sugar into his coffee, staring across the table at Lafayette. Lafayette shifts in his chair, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Uh, no. Going home."

"Oh. Yeah, totally."

"I don't—" Lafayette pauses, tapping his fingers on the table. "I don't want to go back, but I can't stay here."

Alexander is taken aback. "Why not?"

"Because I have a family in France."

Seeing the look on Alexander's face—something akin to sadness and disappointment, maybe—Lafayette gives him a sad smile.

"It's not so bad, Alexander. Sometimes we've all just got to—uh, the phrase is, I think, grin like a bear would?"

Alexander, despite his sudden sadness, laughs. "Lafayette, it's  _grin and bear it_."

Lafayette actually laughs aloud at that, a loud and happy laugh. Something nameless and dark rears in Alexander's chest.

"So, what about you?" Lafayette says. "Are you going home?"

"Uh, no." Alexander stares at his hands.

"If you want to talking during the break, I've got instant messaging on my computer. And texting or calling, but I know that international calls are a bitch." Lafayette is looking at Alexander with an expression bordering on pity. Alexander loves Lafayette, loves that they can speak French together and that underhanded comments about sexuality are always understood, but he can't stand the thought of Lafayette pitying him. Of anyone pitying him, broke-ass Alexander without a home to go back to, without a family to see. 

The dark, nameless thing bites him hard. Alexander's eyes well with sudden tears, which Lafayette has the decency to pretend not to see. 

* * *

 

 

Aaron Burr asks him to wait after the last discussion period of the semester. Alexander does so somewhat grudgingly, certain that Burr is going to ask him about the internship application, make some vaguely derisive comment. Instead, he says,

"Are you staying here during the break, Alexander?"

Alexander twists his backpack straps around his hand. "Um. Yeah."

Burr looks sympathetic. "I know that this time of year can be difficult for those without traditional families."

_Or without_ any  _family_ , Alexander thinks. He nods. "Yeah."

"Just know that there are resources on campus. You're aware of the counseling center, right?"

"Uh-huh." Something goes hard inside Alexander; he doesn't need  _counseling_ , doesn't need to talk to anyone about his problems. He can deal with everything just fine on his own, the way he always has. Like James says, tough it the fuck out and take it like a man. "I know."

"Alright." Burr nods. He smiles, a smile that verges on openness. It's the closest to friendliness that Alexander has ever seen him come. "Have a good break, Alexander."

Alexander's in the classroom doorway when he turns back. "Aaron?"

Burr glances up from packing up his bookbag. "Yes?"

"Where are you going during the break?"

"New Jersey." Burr's voice is even. "My uncle and sister live near Newark."

"That's. That's cool." Alexander hears his voice hitch. "That's nice."

Burr nods curtly. Alexander hurries out of the classroom, is walking back to his dorm before he lets himself shudder and wordlessly wipe his eyes; he wonders if everyone without a family during the holidays feels this horrible dark dread. 

* * *

"Shit. Have you seen my nice shirt?" Laurens starts digging through his suitcase, shoving aside t-shirts and jeans and the bulky sweaters that Lafayette says are unfashionable but Alexander privately loves. 

Alexander doesn't look up from his textbook. "You already packed it."

"Shit. Thanks." Laurens crams the clothes back into his suitcase, then stops and sighs. "You gonna be okay, Alex?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Alexander hears the tension in his own voice, the hardness. He wishes that he couldn't, wishes that he could sound happy for John. 

Laurens is pointedly silent.

"Look, I'm not going to be alone here." Alexander closes his textbook, anxiety pushing down on his chest. "John, listen, I'm not gonna be, like, alone and miserable for a month."

"Okay," Laurens says, sounding completely unconvinced. "I just hate the idea of, you know, leaving you here."

Alexander smiles and hopes that the expression reaches his eyes. "I'll be fine."

Laurens stares at his half-packed suitcase and sighs. "I fucking hate going home."

"What?" Alexander sits up a little straighter. Laurens barely mentions his home life—aside from a few errant comments about his mom's phone calls and the insinuations that he and his father don't get along. "Why?"

"My father, mostly." There is something stiff in Laurens' voice now. "And my grandparents—the holidays are hard, because I'm expected to see his family. All my aunts and uncles, you know. We just—we don't really get along, my father and I." 

"I know," Alexander says, almost cautiously. "I understand." 

He doesn't, not really; Laurens knows his father, at least, can put a face and personality to the name while Alexander can only guess as to what his father is—was?—like. Alexander thinks, not for the first time, that it's far easier to not know. Hating a stranger is easier than hating someone who raised you, although Alexander isn't sure that he hates his father—hates what he's done, abandoned Alexander's mother and Alexander and James and—

"Are you okay?" Laurens is staring at him, holding a t-shirt in his hands.

Alexander coughs. "Uh. Yeah." He wants to say more, wants to keep talking—that much is in his nature, to talk until he's certain that he's right or has at least convinced the listener—but discussing his father feels too personal, too much like putting a blade to an old cut. 

"Anyways, it doesn't matter." Laurens folds the shirt up and puts it in the suitcase, smoothing his palms over the fabric. "It's only a monthlong break, so."

Alexander doesn't say anything. 

"My father," Laurens says slowly, carefully, like the words hurt. "He's involved in local government in South Carolina, but he got his start in agriculture." 

"He was a farmer?" Alexander asks, almost incredulously. He tries to imagine Laurens growing up on a farm, tending to the fields and wearing muddy jeans and boots. 

"No." Laurens' mouth is pulled into a grimace. "He owns land. He, uh. He grows tobacco. The workers..." 

Very suddenly, Alexander doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to hear about Laurens' father or his tobacco money or any of it. A sick feeling is creeping up into his throat. 

"The workers are mostly illegal immigrants," Laurens says tersely. "Or teenagers from local families. People living in unspeakable poverty. People that he can exploit without repercussions." 

"Fuck." Alexander feels kind of nauseous. 

Laurens keeps talking, seems unable to  _stop_ talking, and very pointedly doesn't look at Alexander. "When I was fifteen, I found out that more than thirty percent of the labor force is underage—we're talking kids, thirteen to eighteen years old. Kids skipping summer school to work, or kids whose parents are here illegally, uh. Not going to school at all. I confronted him about it and he broke my arm. Shoved me down the stairs, wouldn't let my mom take me to the hospital for two days."

Alexander can't respond. 

"Anyways, that's why I don't like going back to Carolina." Laurens still isn't looking at Alexander, like maybe he can't bring himself to.

"John, I'm so sorry." Alexander's lips feel numb. "I had no idea."

"It's fine," Laurens says, an obvious lie. He shuts his suitcase and gives Alexander a frank  _what can you do?_ kind of look. 

Later, in the parking lot outside the dorm, Alexander hugs him so tightly it almost hurts.

"Gonna miss you until January," he mumbles, head on Laurens' shoulder. 

"I know." Laurens runs his fingers across the top of Alexander's head, a gentle and consistent motion. "Me too, Alex."

The warm circle of Laurens' arms is so safe and comforting, and Alexander can hear the steady thud of Laurens' heartbeat through the material of his t-shirt and jacket. They only break apart when Laurens' taxi pulls up. 

"I'll text you over the break," Laurens promises. "Call you whenever I can."

"Yeah, me too." Alexander suddenly feels like he's about to cry, his chest tight and his throat burning. He wants to kiss Laurens like he had in the dorm room, on the mouth, but the taxi driver is watching them and so Alexander stands on his tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss to Laurens' cheek. 

Later, alone in his cold dorm room, Alexander feels the tears welling up in his eyes again. This time, he doesn't stop himself; he cries bitterly, one hand pressed over his mouth, until he feels empty and lonely. 

It's still the last day of finals, though, and despite Laurens' early flight most people are still on campus. Alexander texts Lafayette and Mulligan before remembering that they're both taking exams. He checks his email, more out of habit than anything, and there's a message from Washington.

_Alexander,_

_Are you able to stop by my office sometime this afternoon?_

_Best,_

_G. Washington_

Alexander slams his laptop shut, grabs his jacket and backpack and keys, and practically sprints across campus. His heart is hammering in his chest as he climbs the stairs to Washington's office and knocks on the half-open door. 

"Come in," Washington calls. When Alexander enters, Aaron Burr is sitting in front of Washington's desk. They both turn to look at Alexander, Washington smiling and Aaron Burr looking nothing less than suspicious. "Have a seat, Alexander."

Burr shoots Washington a swift, horrified glance. 

"Alexander, Aaron and I were just discussing the departmental internships. Congratulations to both of you."

Alexander barely suppresses a gasp, grinning. Burr looks stricken.

"Professor—" he begins, sounding desperate.

"This is the first time in departmental history that there have been two interns," Washington says, glancing from Alexander to Burr and back again. "And the first time that a freshman has interned." 

Alexander's cheeks warm in a blush; he's dizzy with pride and excitement. 

"Now, I have finals to grade, but neither of you should hesitate to email me over the break if you have any questions. Keep an eye out for details over the break."

"Professor, could I speak with you for a moment?" Burr's tone very clearly suggests the subject of his desired discussion. Alexander feels a flash of discontent, something close to anger. 

"I need to get started on this grading," Washington replies easily, like he knows what Burr wants to talk about. "But you could email me later. I'm sure that I'll be up correcting papers."

Burr presses his mouth into a thin line but doesn't say anything, just pushes his chair back.

"Thank you, Washington." There is sincerity in his voice. "I'm honored to work for this department in another capacity."

"You're one of our best, Aaron." 

Burr smiles tightly. 

"And Alexander—you too."

Alexander swears that he's never smiled so widely in his life. "Thank you, sir."

Washington laughs quietly as he uncaps his pen and turns the page of someone's essay. "There's no need to call me  _sir_ , Alexander."

"Right. Sorry." He follows Burr to the doorway, then pauses and looks back. "I know it will only be my second semester here, but I'll do it as well as Burr. As well as anyone."

"I know," Washington says, and his voice is serious. "Believe me, Alexander. I know."

* * *

Outside Washington's office, Burr walks quickly and doesn't look back at Alexander.

"Aaron, wait!" Alexander jogs after him—why do they always end up like this, with Alexander hurrying after Burr and Burr walking away?

Burr doesn't turn around. 

"Is this about the internship?"

Burr turns around so quickly that Alexander stumbles into him, steadying himself awkwardly with his hands on Burr's shoulders. 

"This is about the  _internship_ ," Burr snaps. "This is about..." he stops, obviously restraining himself with effort. 

"About what?" Alexander knows, of course, what Burr is thinking.  _This is about you, you being a freshman, you being an intern, you being..._

"It's nothing." Burr presses his lips into a line. "Can I be frank with you for a minute?" 

"Yes."

"This isn't an easy job. I've worked for the department for a year and a half now, and it's difficult. Late hours, working weekends. You put in five times as much effort as other Political Science students, and it can feel like nobody cares. Like nobody even sees what you're doing."

"Everyone sees," Alexander says. "I mean, everyone..."

"They don't." Burr laughs drily. "Other people don't care, Alexander. You'll learn that soon enough."

Alexander recoils a little. "I'm not—I know I'm a freshman, or whatever, but I'm not stupid. I'm not a kid, Burr." 

"Didn't say you were." Burr turns around, starts walking. Alexander hurries after him, trying not to slide on the icy pavement. 

"You act like I am. You condescend to me." 

"Alexander." Burr pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. "Listen." 

"Why do you act like I'm a thorn in your side?" Alexander asks, a little louder than he means to. "We come from the same background, Burr!"

Burr presses his lips into a hard line. He stares at Alexander for a moment, like he's debating whether or not to launch into a monologue. Then he glances away, towards the slushy snow on the walkway.

"No, Alexander." He shakes his head. "We aren't." 

"You told me that you don't have parents," Alexander cries. "You told me that—"

"I was raised by my aunt and uncle. They're very wealthy." 

"What?"

"They've always had money. I went to prep school. I grew up outside of Elizabeth, Jersey." Seeing Alexander's blank look. "Uh, it's a suburb. Mostly upper class."

Alexander feels hot with embarrassment and betrayal. 

"I'm sorry, Alexander." Burr pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. "I figured that you assumed that we...came from similar backgrounds." 

Alexander says nothing.

"Have a good break, Alexander." Burr says firmly. Alexander mutters a response, but Burr is already striding away and does not look back. Alexander stands there for a moment, shaking with cold and outrage. Then he walks back to his dorm room, hurrying, like if he walks fast enough he can outpace his anger. There is already a speech roiling in his chest like storm clouds over the turquoise sea, the high cliffs, the white sand. 

The building is quiet. Alexander unlocks his dorm room and stands in the doorway for a minute before stepping inside. The door slams behind him. The room is dim, full of a diffused gray light. Everything feels stifled. Stifling. Cold. Distant, empty. Something—sadness, maybe—wells sharp inside Alexander's chest. He stares at Mulligan's vacant side of the room, at his own unmade bed, the dirty laundry on the floor. 

"Fuck." He says. The room's silence swallows up his voice. 

Alexander sighs. The room's silence swallows that, too. 

He drops his backpack on the floor.

"Okay." He runs his tongue over his lips. A month of this. That's it, a month. "Let's go." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
